Firestorm
by Dustbunny13
Summary: Sherlock returns, but his friendship with John is damaged. Nevertheless, they embark on their final hunt to finish off Moriarty's net, but it ends in a catastrophe: Sherlock is shot and lapses into a coma. As John keeps vigil, he reads Sherlock's diary written during the hiatus. Slowly, he begins to understand and finds himself wishing for another miracle. Completed.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything and bow to the genius of Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and everyone involved in creating _Sherlock_.

**Author's note: Hello guys, this is my first fanfic and I hope some of you like it. It's a story of some length, but it's completed and I'll post a chapter a day, so hopefully no delays. **

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**Firestorm**

Prologue

The Silence before the Storm

He was going to die.

He woke up to that thought in his mind. There it was, crystal clear and without doubt, startling him out of his fitful sleep as if someone had whispered it into his ear. It was not a premonition; had it been, he would have dismissed it. Sherlock believed in facts, not foreboding, and he could distinguish between hard knowledge and irrational fear washed up by his emotion-plagued subconscious. This was fact.

He knew it was going to happen today.

His mind told him he had missed something – there was always something.

He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings: not Baker Street; a featureless London flat that provided anonymity. He had refused to stay at Mycroft's house.

He moved his legs out of bed and carefully rose to his feet, doing a quick physical inventory. He dismissed the cacophony of aches and pains from the bruises, but acknowledged the fact that the mundane chest cold was definitely developing into pneumonia; he could not avoid seeing a doctor about it much longer. Unless, of course, his prediction turned out to be correct and he did die today, rendering any medical treatment superfluous.

So, no rush.

Anyway, he had no time for indispositions: there was a killer to catch. And so much more.

Normally, this prospect would have fuelled him with enough energy to work at manic speed for days, not sleeping, hardly eating, barely registering anything not case-related in his frantically processing mind. Not now. A lot of things were different now. None of them were good. Now he needed more sleep, but it was plagued by nightmares and left him exhausted instead of refreshed; he tried to eat regularly because John wanted him to, but everything tasted like ash and upset his stomach; he maintained his routine of personal hygiene, but it had become a huge effort and made no sense. He only did it to keep John from worrying too much, but that meant John thought he was fine, leaving him alone.

Alone.

Alone did not protect him anymore; it had become his greatest enemy. All he had done in the past had been driven by one motivation: to protect his friends. How had he become so dependent on other people? Sentiment had sneaked into his heart, and now he could no longer live without affection and caring and warmth and all those mundane human emotions.

Simple fact was: he did not want to continue his existence as it was. He wanted John to be with him – or at least to be there for him. But John was married now, and this was Sherlock's own fault since he had left him in the first place and then taken too long to return, so that in the meantime a woman had recognised John Watson's worth and secured him for herself while Sherlock was away hunting his enemies. Clever girl.

It was much worse, to be honest. Mary Morstan was not only clever, she was highly intelligent, appallingly warmhearted and infinitely generous. Worst of all, she had saved John Watson. In her own way, she had done what Sherlock had attempted to do – only, it had not taken a swan dive from a rooftop, just a smile, a kiss and a promise of happiness. Sherlock could have done that – surely, he could? But he had been too busy playing games with Moriarty, resulting in the destruction of their lives. Had Mary not come along and dragged John Watson out of his misery, the doctor might have lost himself in depression, and Sherlock knew he had to give Mary credit for that.

He did, for about half a second. But then resentment took over. She was so much better for John than he could ever be, she made him happy, she gave him confidence, she took care of him – and most of all, she could give him what he could not: a family. The promise of children. Love, sex and the prospect of growing old together. That, he knew, outweighed chasing killers and hunting madmen.

Back then, when he had learned about Mary, while still on the run, with his sanity rapidly deteriorating, he had even considered not returning at all, just leaving John in peace with his little bit of happiness, knowing he was safe and content. But he had seen that John was still wounded and would always be scarred from the fall, and that he was tearing himself apart over this stupid notion of being somehow responsible for Sherlock's suicide. It may not show now, he was so swept off his feet by love he even smiled benignly at the telly reporting an oil spill in the Atlantic, but it would catch on later. He knew John. And he knew himself: he wanted John back in his life, and if he could not have that, he didn't want a life at all. It was selfish but he didn't care, he had prior rights. Mary had to make room for him.

And that was the crux of the matter: she was willing to do so. It was him – he was the problem.

Sighing, Sherlock trudged into the small kitchen. He put the kettle up, spooned tea into the pot (for two, but he would drink it alone) and forced himself to focus on the problem at hand – the tiny detail he had missed, nagging him at the back of his mind, whispering _danger._

They had set up an elaborate trap to catch Moran today, and within the hour he would be meeting John, Mycroft, and an entire special forces unit dedicated to bring down Moriarty's second in command. But the treacherous detail he had missed remained elusive, swamped by the quagmire of feelings clogging his rational mind. He was compelled to analyse them – thanks, John, this is your fault, I fared better without sentiment!

He realized much to his dismay that he did not really feel resentment towards Mary or John or Mycroft or anybody else – except, maybe, himself. What he truly felt was simple, dull misery. Resentment would have been better, giving him energy, sparking him into action, but he was just an empty shell. Frozen in sorrow. Pathetic.

This was Moriarty's victory beyond the grave.

Destroying Moriarty's legacy and ensuring the safety of his friends had left him wounded in a way he had never thought possible. He was losing himself to the darkness creeping up around him, and he was both unable and unwilling to fight it, languidly watching as his soul choked itself to death through inaction and silence, failing to talk to John, failing to explain, failing to express his feelings.

If he made one more effort, if, maybe, he talked to Mary – she was no fool, she understood what John needed, perhaps even what he himself needed, but the blackness was weighing him down, clinging to him, turning even the most mundane activity into a huge, pointless struggle. He knew, in the end, the darkness would obliterate all emotions, and perhaps that was a good thing; but it would also be the end of hope. And hope dies last.

He curled his lips in disgust: clinical depression. Of course there was a name for it, a label, a way of categorizing his mental state, degrading the apocalypse of his mind to some banal affliction that troubled millions of people, like flu.

It was so much worse. His mind palace lay in ruins: a firestorm had raged through it, burning memories and scorching recollections, reducing the most recent bits to ashes and rendering older pieces unrecognisable – charred remains that could not be restored, leaving him to brood over what they were.

He had lost his memory. Large parts were missing, or jumbled up and torn to shreds, taunting him every night – mocking him, the master of deduction, crippled by his inability to reconstruct the events after he had been captured, failing to make sense of his shattered memory.

The had taken him, and they had all but destroyed his mind.

There was a way out of this nightmare, though: if he had the facts, he could fill in what was missing. He knew that certain knowledge and cool logic would not take away the terror, but it would give him a chance to rationalize it into something he could cope with. But the nightmares, the guilt, the devastation he felt since his return were smothering him.

Mycroft kept urging him to commit himself to a psychiatric hospital, but that would never happen. What he really needed was the bloody phone. _The_ _phone,_ not a hospital.

More precisely, he needed the diary he had kept on it. Of course, his notes ended when he had been captured, but that didn't matter – the nightmares supplied him with sufficient information about that period. Logic easily filled the gaps. Mycroft, naturally, wanted the phone, too – the data he had collected was highly sensitive and would have any secret service shouting for joy, but he himself was purely interested in the diary. It contained not only the events of the hiatus, but also his thoughts, fears, and hopes, and it was brutally honest: he had written it for John to read, in case he didn't make it home.

Of course, he hadn't thought he'd make it home with half his mind torn away.

He needed that phone. Desperately. It was the only way to retrace his steps and make sense of his memories; and more importantly, it was the only way he could make John understand.

Perhaps he was lost anyway. Sometimes he wished his enemies had succeeded, killing him, making him a hero in John's eyes. Had he died, John would have been told the truth about his faked suicide. He had Mycroft sworn to that – John could not be left behind believing Sherlock had killed himself and John had failed to prevent it. So, suicide was not an option: he had seen what it had done to John.

But he wished himself dead.

He might die today.

Strange how a simple thought could give you energy.

The kettle clicked.

Sherlock poured boiling water over the tea leaves and watched as the dried shreds swirled around, quickly unfolding and changing back into their full green shape.

He smiled. Everything would change today.

He drank his tea, savouring scent and flavour, relishing the illusion of comfort and domestic bliss: the steaming cup in the morning light, the milk turning the auburn liquid into burnished gold … but then, this was not Baker Street. Not home.

Sherlock put the cup down. No more sentiment; he was running out of time. He went to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

Shower, shave, get dressed.

Coat, scarf, and the gun.

He was ready.

He stared at the mirror – his face did not look that much different, did it? The lines were a bit deeper, the features more sculpted, his shoulders broader. A bit of bruising under the left eye, but soon it wold be invisible. He knew there was one major difference though: his guarded look. The arrogance was still there, as was the hint of boredom and the sharp intelligence in his vigilant eyes, but curiosity had been replaced by suspicion, and audacity had yielded to caution.

Subtle changes. Most people only noticed that he was a bit older, his hair a bit shorter, his body – surprisingly – a bit stronger. John saw so much more. The doctor may not have been the most observant person when it came to facts and evidence, but with regard to Sherlock's moods he had proven to be a veritable bloodhound.

He was not looking forward to meeting him.

Sherlock gave his own reflection a cynical grin. What an irony of fate: for three years, all he had wanted was to see his friend again. But was John still his friend? After what Sherlock had done – he stopped that train of thought instantly, but just brushing the memory made him wince.

Pointless. Sherlock turned away from his reflection. It was time to go.

A black car was waiting for him, thanks to Mycroft. He got in without bothering to look at the driver. Slumping in the corner, he took out his phone and started typing. The phone was new, given to him by Mycroft, just like the replica of his beloved Belstaff, a _welcome home_ gift. Only, nothing felt like home. Again, pointless.

He let himself be taken across London, on his way to where it had all begun: a court room in the Old Bailey.

He owed the world a resurrection.

**Daffodils**

John cursed.

He had poured the coffee too hastily, the hot liquid slopping out of the cup and over his hand, burning his skin and drenching the table cloth. Now he was furiously trying to mop up the mess, but he had knocked over the crystal vase with the daffodils instead, sending a gush of water across the table.

"Goddamnit!" He jerked the vase upright, scattering the daffodils and staining the white damask with yellow pollen. "Shit," he hissed, scrambling for the flowers and smudging the cloth with more water, pollen, and slime from the stems. "Great, green, yellow, mess."

"Stop it, John." Mary stilled his hands with a light touch on his shoulder. "It's okay. Don't worry."

"Mary, I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy today, I don't know what – Jesus, if you think I'm a surgeon and I can't even pour myself a cup of coffee without causing a catastrophe …"

"You're nervous, John, that's all. Most people wouldn't be too keen on going out to meet a killer either." She raised a finely arched eyebrow at him.

John sighed. "I was a soldier, Mary, going into battle was part of my routine. That's not what's freaking me out."

"Then what is?" she asked softly, placing her delicate hands over his, sending a soothing warmth through his body. John closed his eyes, struggling with himself, feeling Mary touch his face.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it? Meeting him makes you more nervous than hunting down Moran."

John huffed. "Right." He looked at her, taking in her slim figure wrapped in a mauve dressing gown, even barefoot half a head taller than him; dark curls cascading down her back, pale skin with a hint of freckles, and the warmest eyes he had ever seen. He still did not understand what this beautiful and fiercely intelligent woman had seen in someone as ordinary as him, but she had pursued him with a stubbornness and determination that reminded him of Sherlock.

A lot about her reminded him of Sherlock, he realized.

"It's the whole thing, I guess, going back to that court room, hearing the case again, trying to prove Sherlock's innocence and then staging his resurrection. The day will be hell. The press will dine on us. And then there's this thing between us … This silence." He sighed deeply. "I really don't know Sherlock anymore."

"It will be all right, John. We'll sort this out, somehow, when this madness is over."

"How?" John moaned, not expecting an answer.

"I don't know," Mary raised her brows. "I don't think marriage counselling is the right thing for the two of you," she chuckled, "but something along the lines. There must be a way to mend this friendship."

"Can't see that happening," John groaned. "He won't speak to me, he just – stares, God, it's creepy! And that whole thing about not allowing anyone to touch him, I mean he's never been one for hugging, but this is – it scares the hell out of me!"

"You know what this is, John," she said quietly, "you of all people. You know exactly what's going on."

"Yes," John admitted. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. Textbook. But how to help him is another matter. I don't think Sherlock can be persuaded to see a therapist." He barked a humourless laugh at the idea. "I wonder who'd be more traumatized by the end of that session."

Mary smiled wrily. "He needs _you_, John."

"I'm not sure he sees it that way."

"He does."

"He sure has a strange way of expressing it."

"Well, ordinary wouldn't do for him, would it?" She smiled reassuringly and rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, calming him without words.

"No, ordinary wouldn't do for Sherlock," John sighed. Frowning, he tugged at the silk shawl Mary had wrapped around her neck. He knew what it was hiding. Gently, she moved his hand away. "I'm fine, John."

John tried to say something, but stopped before a sound escaped his lips.

"What?" She asked.

"Nothing. No, it's … it's just – how can you be so forgiving? How? I feel like a real prick when I–"

"It's easy, John." She gave him a mischievous grin. "I can forgive Sherlock almost anything, for one simple reason: if it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have _you_." Her smile vanished. "You wouldn't be alive and I would never have met you. And if he hadn't left you, I would never have come near you. So, no Sherlock, no John for me. Whether he can forgive me snatching you away is another question."

"As if he had any reason for a grudge," John growled.

"John," Mary poked him gently in the stomach, "leave it for now. You have to focus. I don't want you to get harmed today, okay?"

"Sure, sure. I'll be careful, Mary," he promised.

"No, you won't," she grinned. "Just stay alive, okay? That'll do."

"Yeah." He pulled her into a hug and buried his face at her shoulder, inhaling her scent. "Hm, you smell so good."

She laughed. "Well, a perfume worth several hundred pounds should smell good!"

"You also smell wonderful without perfume," John muttered, placing a kiss on her neck.

She chuckled. "Yeah, that's just my luck, getting a ridiculously expensive fragrance from that rich chap as a reward for my efforts when I had really wanted a donation for the university library."

"I have to admit," John murmured, nuzzling her neck where the scent was strongest, "that rich chap has really good taste, and I don't care for the library at all."

She kissed him back. "And that's as well, 'cause now you smell of it, too," she giggled. "A bit feminine that fragrance, for a soldier-doctor, don't you think?" Her fingers gently wove into his short-cut hair.

"I don't mind," John mumbled. "It reminds me of you." He held her a bit tighter and wondered whether there was enough time for some real snogging and maybe a bit more when he heard a car pull up outside. A moment later, the doorbell rang: Mycroft's minions had come to take him to the Old Bailey – to assist in Sherlock's resurrection. He sighed and Mary pulled away; he released her reluctantly, quickly kissing her on the tip of her nose. She smiled and leaned into him again, kissing him properly on the mouth.

"Now," she smiled, gently turning him towards the door, "go and work a miracle, doctor. Make a man return from the dead."

John smiled ruefully, and the doorbell rang again, decidedly impatient now.

John nodded at the dark-suited security man at his door. "Morning."

"Good morning, Sir," the man replied and opened the car door for him, eager to get him out of the line of fire. John raised his brows and climbed in. He felt safe – Mycroft had turned this lovely Kensington steet into a fortress, despite the illusion of tranquility with its flower pots, French windows, stuccoed walls and colourful fanlights. There was no danger now; Sherlock had devised the plan, and he knew Moran as no one else did – he understood how his mind worked. With Sherlock as the mastermind and Mycroft doing the reconnaissance, there was no chance for Moran to outwit them.

John calmly settled into the seat and took out his phone. He sighed: no message from Sherlock. Normally, he would have had at least five texts, increasingly impatient, culminating in some sort of insult. Now there was just silence. He tucked the phone away and looked to the window, staring at his own reflection.

Those three years had taken their toll, despite his recent happiness thanks to Mary. His hair was mostly grey now, the lines on his face were deeper, and the deepest ones had been etched into it by grief, not laughter. Mary had saved him as much as Sherlock had; and if he could just get Sherlock to accept help, they might be able to mend their friendship. God, how he missed the arrogant git – that brooding Sherlock he had encountered a week ago scared him. There was a silent menace surrounding him, and it seemed Sherlock had shut everyone out. John was desperate to get through to him, but if this great, stubborn mind did not want to move, it could not be made to. Sooner, a mountain would shift.

Sighing, he pinched his nose to stop the growing tension headache. Why had it all gone so terribly wrong? How?

His thoughts drifted back to the fateful day of Sherlock's return, the day that should have been the happiest of his life. Instead, the miracle had turned into a nightmare.


	2. Manhunt

**Manhunt**

Sherlock and John agreed on one thing: it was all Mycroft's fault.

Had Mycroft simply told John that Sherlock was alive, John would have raged, cursed, and perhaps cried, but he would have understood; and he would have complied. He would have let himself be taken to a safe place, knowing that a killer was on the loose, Moriarty's second in command, intent on finishing his original assignment and taking revenge on the man that had fooled him by faking his suicide. Moran, now knowing that Sherlock was alive, intended to kill John, so John needed protection. Only, Mycroft failed to tell him so. Granted, John refused to speak to Mycroft since the day of Sherlock's fall, blaming him for the destruction of his brother, but if Mycroft had tried, he would have reached him, and be it by talking to Mary. Mary was always the sensible one.

Yet, Mycroft had told John nothing, instead reverting to his usual method of kidnapping the doctor. Unfortunately, John was not willing to be kidnapped, and Mycroft's minions had forgotten that they were not only dealing with a benign doctor, but an ex-soldier who knew how to fight, run and disappear. Which was exactly what he did.

That sent Sherlock into a frenzy. He had barely set foot on British soil after a dramatic rescue mission organized by Mycroft – only to find John gone. Of course Mycroft had tried to conceal the fact that John had just bolted, but Sherlock had learnt a lot during his hiatus, and one thing was how to gather information. Another was how to disappear. So, within one hour, the unthinkable happened: a second man slipped through Mycroft's fingers.

Sherlock knew where John would go. Moran did, too, by tracking John, so Sherlock went there as well. Very simple. He did tell Mycroft, though, so that he could send backup. This was too dangerous to nurse old grudges and protect his pride. He needed to be fast, so he didn't take the high road – he went by boat.

John, knowing nothing, arrived by bus and walked the remaining few hundred meters, making sure the CCTV cameras only recorded a nondescript shape in the dusk. Almost at his destination, he took out his phone and texted Mary, letting her know what had happened, and that he was deeply upset and needed to clear his mind.

Upset was an understatement: his mind was racing, almost as fast as his heart. For when John had run from Mycroft's men, one of them had hissed an angry comment at his companion, a sentence that had conjured up a storm inside.

_The brother will go berserk._

The brother. Whose brother, if not Mycroft's? But he was dead. Or was he? John swallowed, realising that all the pain inside had only been asleep, and now it was stirring again, tearing at his heart.

His phone buzzed: Mary was calling him.

"Are you all right?" She sounded concerned, but not annoyed. She would not tell him to stop clinging to the crazy idea that Sherlock was not dead; she understood him too well for that.

"Yeah, I'm okay, it's just – I need some time on my own." John stopped and took a deep breath.

"You think he's alive." It was a statement, not a question.

"Mary, I know it's crazy, and I had given up hoping for a miracle a long time ago, but this – this just–" defeated, he broke off, realizing how mad it must seem. "Please don't think I'm crazy."

"I know you're not." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"You know. How?" He felt amusement bubble up inside him. God, he loved her.

"You're the most sensible person I've ever met, and from what you've told me, Sherlock's the only one who could actually devise such a ruse. So, it's not impossible, and no, you're not crazy."

John stopped dead in his tracks. "You believe he might be alive?"

"No," Mary stated flatly. "But if he is, tell him I'd like to meet him."

"Mary?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I know." She chuckled. "I love you, too. Go, get your thoughts together, I'll pick you up later. We can drive home together, then."

"Yeah." He closed his eyes briefly. "Thanks."

He ended the call and walked on, already feeling better, despite his mind still teeming with possibilities. He needed to think, and he needed a quiet place to do so. Desperately. Yet, Mycroft knew all his retreats, every pub, every park, every stretch along the river. So he went to the only quiet place he was sure Mycroft did not know about, because it was the most unlikely place for contemplation: Battersea Power Station.

The huge brick complex squatted next to the Thames, with its four white chimneys sticking into the sky, surrounded by wasteland, shrubs and decaying outbuildings. The expanse was enclosed by a high wall to keep out trespassers, a disused peer with two old cranes facing the waterside, railroads to the west, industrial buildings to the east and a busy road to the south. John climbed the fence, dodged the security cameras and marched towards the looming mass of brick in the dark. It was ridiculous, really, other people went for a walk along the Thames, feeding ducks; he wandered the empty corridors of an abandoned coal-fired power plant from the 1930s. One had to go to such lengths to avoid Mycroft Holmes. Besides, two other things drew him: the memory of meeting _the woman_, possibly the only person ever to dent the armour shielding Sherlock's heart – and because he knew how to get in. Anyway, the plant reminded him a bit of himself: old-fashioned, solid, reliable, abandoned.

He reached the side of the building and climbed another fence, landing effortlessly on his feet. Since meeting Mary, he had started exercising again, and it paid off – a year ago, this wouldn't have been quite so easy, but a year ago he wouldn't have felt the need to hide from Mycroft to contemplate the possibility that Sherlock was alive.

John stood still for a while, watching his surroundings and listening out for other trespassers, but he seemed to be alone. The ground-floors were lit by floodlights, illuminating the carcass of the building and probably burning away tons of money each year in order to prevent idiots from getting injured or killed by falling into the flooded holes in the ground or spearing themselves on the steel rods sticking out of the walls. It was a dangerous place at night.

John entered one of the great halls, and avoiding the heaps of brick and mortar, he climbed to the second floor, carefully picking his way between broken tiles and coils of wire until he reached the riverside of the complex, where the shattered windows faced out to the Thames.

There was still some light left, just grazing the surface of the river, making the waves sparkle and outlining the cranes sitting on the abandoned peer. It was almost surreal, the derelict brick building and the glass and steel structures of modern London on the other side of the river. He took a few deep breaths and tried to sort out his inner turmoil.

_The brother._ Strictly speaking, it could mean anything – and it was highly unlikely that the man had referred to Sherlock. Yet, John had always had his doubts about the suicide, constructing the weirdest theories how Sherlock might have faked it, but when a year had passed and the miracle he had begged for had not come, he had given up. There was no miracle. God alone knew why Mycroft wanted to speak to him now, certainly not because of Sherlock's imminent resurrection. Suddenly, he felt foolish for coming here, skulking and getting all worked up over nothing.

Sentiment, Sherlock would scoff.

John was about to turn away, when his eyes caught a flash of colour on the water – there – he squinted and leaned out of the window. No doubt: there was a boat tied to the peer.

Someone else was here. And this person had arrived in a rather unusual fashion. His soldier's instincts kicked in instantly, his mind racing through possibilities – a crime going on, Mycroft's people following him, partygoers on a nightly spree? Yet, a voice in his mind whispered _danger_, and no matter how unlikely it was, he had learnt to trust his instincts. And for the first time in three years, he wished he had his gun with him.

John retreated from his vantage point, silently making his way back through the building. Half-way along the gallery, he thought he heard a sound. He froze instantly, all his senses reaching out – but there was nothing. Then, just as he was about to dismiss it as mice or imagination, he heard it again: footsteps, so cautious and practiced in avoiding sound, they could not belong to some ignorant intruder – no, this was a hunter prowling.

The very, very faint sound of metal brushing against cloth, the barely audible rustle of heavy-duty fabric, and combat boots feeling their way through the grit and dust, with the wearer trying hard to stifle the sound – impossible in a building full of rubble and shards of glass. Whoever this hunter was, he was right underneath him, on the ground floor. John forced himself to keep his breathing steady, preparing himself for a mad run down the metal stairs and across the hall. Slowly, slowly he moved towards the inside of the building and glanced down from the gallery into the hall.

Yes. In the large pool of water seeping out across the ground floor, he could see the reflection of a man stealthily making his way along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows. He had a gun. And not just a shotgun or a revolver, this was a sniper's rifle, a high-precision small arm fitted with a telescopic sight. You didn't go squirrel hunting with that. This was a manhunter.

As far as John knew, he was the only prey around here, and no matter how little sense the whole thing made, really, this was not important right now. He needed to get out. Immediately. But running downstairs and dashing across the hall was not a good idea – he'd be an easy target. He racked his brain and decided that climbing down the steel construction on the outside wall of the building was probably his best option – if he could do it undetected. If he failed, the hunter had all the advantages – from the ground-floor, he could quickly access any part of the building, and with that bloody rifle, all he needed to do was kneel down, take aim and conveniently shoot John while he was clinging to the wall like a fruit bat.

He had no choice. John crept across the gallery, holding his breath and desperately trying to avoid making any sound – he was glad that his shoes had soft soles, but still, it was dark, the floor was covered in dust and tile splinters, if he stepped on–

He froze. Damn it. His heart accelerated madly, blood pumping so hard through his veins that he found it difficult to hear – but he was sure, the bloody gunman was coming closer, he was definitely on the metal steps of that rickety staircase, making his way up to the gallery. Had he heard him?

He had to act fast. He retreated into the adjoining building, heading straight for the broken windows; he could already see the night sky and the ribs of the metal skeleton on the outer side of the brick wall, his way down to safety. Even if the gunman heard him now, John had a head start, the side of the building was not illuminated and full of confusing shapes – the hunter might venture some shots in the dark, but it would cost him precious time to get back to the ground floor and out into the open. By then, John would be gone.

Only, he never made it there. Focusing on the window frame, he was already reaching out to climb onto the ledge when someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him back with stunning force, lifting him off his feet. A hand instantly closed over his mouth, smothering any sound before it left his lips, fingers digging painfully into his cheeks; he felt his ribs being crushed to breaking point by strong arms – the air was forced from his lungs, hard knees slamming into him, knocking him off balance, and before he could even think about fighting off his attacker, he crashed into the wall. His opponent immobilized him simply and effectively by squashing him with his own body. The man was tall, muscular, and relentless, and John felt like a fly trapped under a swatter. His ears filled with a screeching noise and his vision began to blur at the edges, pain spreading through his chest, and if he didn't get a decent breath soon, he would be out cold in a few moments. Yet, despite the panic, his subconscious recognized those long fingers pressed to his mouth, and most of all the warm scent of this precious human skin.

Oh God. Dear God.

John's eyes widened, his heart clenched painfully, and he violently jerked his head free, drawing breath, the beloved name already on his tongue –

"Shut up." It was hissed, and barely audible, but so compelling that John's voice died instantly.

He almost laughed – three years of agony, and the first words he got out of him where _shut up._

'Good to see you, too,' he thought wrily and squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed, willing his heart not to burst. He forced his spinning mind to focus, desperately trying to grasp the impossible: Sherlock was alive. He was here, he was whole; and he was shockingly aggressive.

There was something frightening about the way Sherlock had pinned him to the wall – it was brutal, he was hurting him and there was no need for this iron grip. John tried to wriggle, provoking an even more painful crush. This would not do. He forced himself to relax and felt Sherlock do the same, if only marginally, but enough for John to turn his head, bringing his mouth close to Sherlock's ear – his curls were much shorter, he suddenly realized, and his body felt tough and surprisingly solid; he wasn't wearing his coat but some sort of functional clothing, and he smelled of dust and gun oil and _Sherlock,_ minus the expensive shampoo, which was by no means bad … John stopped his thoughts spinning out of control.

"Sherlock," he whispered, and suddenly, as if he had spoken a magic word, he was released and his friend withdrew, breaking away and quickly retreating two steps, much too far for John's liking. He wouldn't have minded touching him, running his hands all over him, making sure he was alive, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat, his curls where all the blood had been. It was too dark to see his face, but the outline of his tall frame and sharp cheekbones was unmistakable. John wanted to marvel at this miracle, but now was not the time: there was a killer on the loose.

John pointed to the window, frantically gesturing for Sherlock to climb out, but he just shook his head. With a sudden move, Sherlock positioned himself next to the window, furtively glancing out. He then lifted one hand, commanding John's attention, and pointed to a spot on the ground. Frowning, John peered into the darkness outside – and finally, he saw it. There was another man hidden in the shadows, crouching behind the shrubs on the wasteland. Had John climbed out, he would have been shot before he even realized where the danger was. He suppressed a curse: now they were trapped between a killer stalking the gallery and his companion waiting for them on the ground. The man on the gallery had to be close now – and yes, John heard the muffled sound of footsteps. He looked at Sherlock; his friend slowly pulled out a handgun from under his jacket and laid a finger to his lips. John stifled a sigh of relief, even though the weapon was no match against a sniper's rifle.

He tried to get Sherlock's attention, improvising a plan to ambush the man on the gallery, but Sherlock just shook his head, taking out a small object from his pocket. He made a strange gesture and it took John a moment to understand that he was meant to cover his ears. John's eyebrows shot up in confusion, but he did as told. Sherlock looked at him; stray light from below illuminated his features just enough for John to see a sudden grin flash across his face as he flicked the switch. And then the world went up in flames.

Not far away, an earsplitting explosion shattered the silence, followed by the roaring of fire and debris shooting into the sky. The floor was shaking, sending a shower of dust and splinters from the walls, and the night sky was suddenly illuminated by a red glow. The man on the ground instinctively ducked lower behind the bushes, but then broke cover. In one fluent movement, Sherlock took a shooting stance, cocked the gun, aimed and fired two quick shots. The man was thrown onto his back hitting the ground hard, then lay still, limbs splayed out like a broken doll.

John's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell," he blurted, "that was a direct hit!" Before he could react, Sherlock pushed the gun into his hands and shoved him towards the door. "John, go after Moran," he urged, "if you cannot shoot him, try to drive him towards the main entrance, Mycroft's men will be coming from that side. Be careful, even on the run he is extremely dangerous. Shoot him in the back if need be, do not hesitate!"

"What? Sherlock–" John turned in confusion, but Sherlock was frantically pointing at the ground.

"There's another one, don't you see!"

"What? Where?" John looked at the dead man and saw someone hurrying towards the prone figure, a slim and tall shape, moving furtively. "Damn, yes, I see–"

"Go!" Sherlock yelled, shoving him. "Get Moran!"

"Sherlock, you're unarmed!" John tried to push the gun back at him, but Sherlock just climbed out the window. "I don't need a gun," he growled. "Get Moran!"

"Damnit!" John cursed, watching Sherlock climbing down the steel structure with stunning agility. "Who's that Moran guy, anyway?" he blurted, receiving no answer. He looked down at the gun in his hands: it was a Glock 17, the standard issue army weapon, nothing special. "You bloody, brilliant bastard," he muttered. "You've turned into a crack shot." Then he turned and did as told, slinking back inside the building, making sure the sniper was no longer on the gallery.

He wasn't: John peered around a pillar just in time to see the man hurrying towards the waterside, probably heading for the boat. "No, you don't," John muttered and quickly fired a well-aimed shot in his direction. Moran veered away, realizing that he could not get to the boat without crossing the line of fire. Instead, he turned east, careful not to break cover. "That's better," John stated grimly, and suddenly he felt the rush of adrenaline in his blood, heightening his senses and making his pulse race, and a disbelieving smile spread across his face and he felt his heart expand with joy, relishing the thrill of the chase and the certainty that his friend was alive. Sherlock was back. And so was he.

And then he went manhunting.


	3. Killer

**Killer**

The heat of the fire was perceptible long before he even saw what Sherlock had blown up: the storage building adjacent to the eastern side of the power plant. John stopped dead in his tracks, still on the first floor. The whole building in front of him was on fire, the roof long gone with flames leaping into the sky, casting an orange glow over the wasteland and showering the area with sparks and bits of burning wood. A pungent smell hit him, making him hold his breath – whatever Sherlock had used to cause such a conflagration, the result was poisonous: he could smell burning tar, oil and solvent. John shielded his eyes and frantically searched the ground. He detected hectic activity along the eastern wall: blue lights flashing, heavily equipped men running towards the fire – no firefighters, he realized, these men were armed and moving with precision. Special forces, then.

Moran had reached the ground floor, and apparently he had seen them, too. He did not hesitate, though; instead, he changed direction, heading straight for the fire, not caring about the explosions still going on inside the warehouse. John cursed, realizing what the man had in mind: with the burning building shielding him, he intended to get as close to the wall surrounding the area as possible, to jump over it and disappear in the dark. Once beyond the wall, he was virtually unrecognisable anyway, being clad and equipped like any other soldier. John aimed his gun at him, but it was useless at such a distance, and he'd be running the risk of drawing Moran's attention – mind you, the man had a scoped rifle and was cold-blooded enough to turn around and calmly shoot him despite the imminent danger.

He kept the gun trained on Moran, just in case, but there was nothing he could do. "Damn it!" he cursed and watched as Moran slipped away, skilfully avoiding the soldiers approaching the building.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" he muttered and briefly wondered whether the sniper had actually come for him or for Sherlock – and who the hell was Moran? But then, another thought struck him: what about the second person, hurrying towards the dead man – the one Sherlock had gone after, unarmed?

Sherlock.

He had to get to Sherlock. Jesus Christ, he was facing an enemy unarmed. Turning around, he tucked the gun away and started running – just then, another explosion ripped through the air. John felt the shockwave hit him in the back, sending him to his knees; searing heat followed and he crouched down, covering his head, until the cloud of dust and debris had settled. He heard the resounding thud of heavy objects hitting the ground, as if some giant was throwing around drums and cans. "What the hell–" he got to his feet and rushed to the window, the glass smashed by the force of the explosion, frame hanging askew.

The burning building had been blown apart completely, and John watched in amazement as oil drums rained down all over the area, sending people running for cover.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Sherlock, you sure know how to stage a spectacle."

Every available fire engine in London seemed to be arriving, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing, and dozens of floodlights were being switched on. As the area lit up brigther than the day, John's heart skipped a beat, and he forgot to breathe as fear shot through his body like a current: down there, between the fire engines, was Mary's car.

It was unmistakably hers, with that unique sky blue colour and the dent in the roof from that stay in Dublin when she had parked it by the cemetery wall and kids had jumped onto it. More so, the car had definitely arrived before the fire engines, because they were just towing it out of the way; and he remembered telling her where he was going and Mary saying _I'll pick you up later …_ and suddenly, it struck him that the tall figure hurrying towards the man Sherlock had shot had seemed strangely familiar. Oh my God, John thought, it would be just so like Mary to run to the aid of an injured man, no matter the danger. And Sherlock had gone after her.

John ran.

He was sprinting across the ground floor of the looming plant, jumping fences and leaping across holes until he reached the far side of the building, his eyes frantically searching for a sign from Sherlock or Mary.

He was already dashing out onto the wasteland, when a shot rang out, cracking through the air like a whiplash. It made him stop dead in his tracks. It had come from one floor up, not too far from where he had met Sherlock only minutes ago. How had they got up there? John turned on his heel, racing back into the building and thundering up the metal stairs, following the sounds of a muffled scream and feet kicking the ground.

He burst into a room – and almost fell: most of the floor was missing, and he all but tumbled over the safety barrier, the rickety metal bars only just saving him from a fall to the ground floor, straight into debris and broken timber. It was dark in the room, but not pitch-black, with the floodlights from below creating an eerie gloom. Panting, he regained his balance and turned to the scuffle in front of him. His blood froze; and the he yelled at the top of his voice, "Sherlock! Stop it!"

Until this day, he had always thought his worst nightmare was the one in which Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart's after saying to him _You think I'm a machine, see how I break._ Now he knew reality was much worse.

Sherlock was killing Mary.

It was too dark to see their faces, just two shapes struggling – but there was no mistaking her voice, desperately gasping for air, and her body jerking wildly. Sherlock had pinned her to the ground, his hands around her throat, choking the life out of her, totally impervious to her dying plea for mercy.

Horrified, John lunged forward; he felt his foot stumble against something – a gun – sending it skittering across the floor. Had Mary taken the dead man's gun? John didn't care. He launched himself against Sherlock. "Sherlock, stop it! She's no enemy! Let go! You're killing her!"

Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to John's assault. It was as if he was acting on instinct, impervious to anything interfering with his intention, and his intention was to kill his opponent.

John bellowed, "Sherlock! She's my wife! You're killing her!"

It had no effect. John desperately clawed at Sherlock, shaking and even punching him, trying to break the murderous grip – to no avail. Finally, he jumped back, yanked out the gun and pressed its muzzle against Sherlock's temple. He made sure the click, indicating the weapon was ready to fire, was audible.

"Let go. Now." John's voice was perfectly calm and his hands did not shake at all.

Whether it was the determination in John's voice or the cold metal against his skin, Sherlock froze, the hands falling away from his victim. Mary gasped with a gut-wrenching sound.

"Get away from her," John ordered, and Sherlock rose with a fluent movement, instantly retreating several steps. "God, Mary!" John tucked the gun away and threw himself down next to her. He ran his hands over her body, feeling for a sign of life – and thank God, she was stirring, coughing violently and gasping for air. He helped her sit up.

"Mary, can you hear me? It's all right now, I'm here, just breathe." He felt her hands reach out, searching his face. "It's all right, you're safe, you're doing fine," he soothed, supporting her head. She whimpered and burrowed into him, still gasping for air and desperately holding on to him. "It's okay," he muttered, holding her close and rubbing her back. "It's okay now."

She couldn't speak, he realized, but her breathing was becoming less frantic and her mad pulse was slowing down. He quickly palpitated her neck, but there were no obvious injuries. "Come on, come here," he murmured, hugging her gently. "We'll get out of here in a moment," he promised. "There's an ambulance out there, and we'll take you to hospital, okay?" She was wheezing, but whimpering a response that sounded very much like protest.

"You have to get checked out, Mary," he explained calmly in his doctor's voice, "even if you're okay now, because your throat might swell and make it difficult for you to breathe later. We don't want that to happen, do we?" He didn't tell her about burst blood vessels, possible damage to her larynx or fractures of the hyoid or other bones in her neck.

She nodded, but tugged at his jacket unhappily. "Right," John muttered, "let's go."

Only now did he remember Sherlock. Cursing silently, John turned around, his arms protectively wrapped around Mary. Sherlock was standing stock still, a few steps away, nothing more than a black outline against the lights from below. Something was wrong with him; John sensed it, but could not figure out what it was. His body seemed to be taut as a bowstring, his fingers splayed as if frozen in mid-movement. John bit his lips, unsure how to react – he was overwhelmed by emotions himself, and he did not know what to make of Sherlock's violent attack on Mary. Even if he had mistaken her for an enemy, why had he not reacted to John's frantic attempts to stop him?

John's sense of priority won: right now, he needed to get Mary to the hospital and himself and Sherlock out of the danger zone. God alone knew whether Moran was still around, giving it a second try.

"Sherlock," he said, trying to sound as calm as possible. "We need to get out of here. Lend me a hand, will you?"

There was no reaction whatsoever.

"Look, we will talk about what happened later, and you sure as hell have a lot of explaining to do. But right now the only thing that matters is that we need to reach Mycroft's men. And just for the record: I'm glad you're alive."

As if on cue, he heard the shouting and trampling of soldiers drawing nearer. Strangely, this seemed to snap Sherlock out of his frozen state: startled, he moved backwards, perilously close to where the floor was missing. "Sherlock!" John rose to his feet, reaching for his friend – but suddenly, the room seemed to be struck by lightning.

A flash of light erupted, and everything went white, sending searing pain through his eyes, followed by a blast so loud it threatened to burst his ear drums. John threw himself protectively over Mary, reeling from disorientation and shock.

_Stun grenade_, his mind supplied, still working despite the sensory overload; he remained motionless, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hear or see for several seconds.

As soon as his senses began to return, he struggled to get to his feet, swaying dangerously, still dazed and off balance thanks to the grenade. He cursed loudly, but could barely hear himself, his voice drowned out by a shrill ringing in his head.

"You idiots!" he bellowed. "We're the good guys!" He added a few choice curses for good measure, than scrambled back to Mary. The soldiers had also thrown a flare, and the white magnesium light was illuminating her terrified face with shocking clarity. Yet, she seemed less stunned than he was, frantically pointing to where the floor was missing, desperate to tell him something; and then he understood. Sherlock was gone.

John whirled around, taking in the chasm, the shattered railing and the grenade – it must have all but hit Sherlock, throwing him off balance immediately. "Oh God, no," John breathed, rushing towards where the floor opened into a gaping hole; he fell to his knees, staring down.

Floodlights illuminated a heap of rubble with broken pieces of timber and metal sticking out; and sprawled on top of it, head lolling and face covered in blood, was Sherlock.


	4. The Worst Miracle

**The Worst Miracle**

Another fall.

John actually laughed. He was hysterical, of course, and later he hated himself for it, blushing with shame at the memory, but at that moment, all he could think was, 'You bugger. You did it again.' Then his doctor's instincts kicked in and he raced downstairs, taking a shortcut by jumping over the side of the stairs.

"Sherlock!" He scrambled up the heap of rubble, praying that his friend had not fallen onto some razor-sharp piece of metal, but it was impossible to tell without moving him.

"Sherlock," His breath was suddenly gone and his voice was breaking as his hands frantically searched for a pulse in the neck.

"Don't do this to me, don't–" Sudden nausea welling up, he broke off, but his fingers dug into the skin of that pale throat, demanding to find a heartbeat.

And there it was – a pulse, strong and steady. "Thank God," John muttered, almost sinking down with relief. He went on to check the blood-covered face, terrified to find the skull split open, but it was just a long gash on the side of Sherlock's head extending all the way down to his throat. He had probably grazed it during the fall – there were plenty of wires and rods sticking out everywhere. Blood was gushing out of the ripped skin with every heartbeat, drenching the curls. Sherlock had landed on top of the heap and was lying on his back, his head dangling down, the blood now streaming all over his face, getting into his eyes and mouth and nose.

John let his breath out in a huff, only now realizing he had been holding it. "Jesus, Sherlock," he wheezed, "please be all right. Mostly, at least. Okay? There's only so much I can take."

He carefully checked his friend's ribcage and abdomen and then hurriedly made sure the long limbs weren't broken. He didn't find anything too worrying, but still, he dreaded to turn the body over, scared to find some shard embedded in the back, piercing vital organs and shattering the spine.

Just then, soldiers burst in, boots grinding on dust and weapons at the ready, yelling and pointing guns at him – John held up his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing his suddenly flaring anger. This was utter madness.

He forced his voice to be calm and clear. "My name is John Watson, I'm a doctor and definitely not the sniper you're hunting. Now stop pointing those guns at me and get someone who's in charge. And most of all, get an ambulance and some paramedics!"

One of the soldiers climbed up the heap. "Sir!" He called, "I'm sorry, Sir," he turned around and gave the command to stand down. "Do you need help, Sir?"

"Get the ambulance," John snarled, too shaken to bother with formalities. "And get Mycroft Holmes, if he's around."

"He is, Sir," the soldier confirmed. "We're supposed to notify him instantly when we find you."

"Then by all means do so," John snapped, focusing on Sherlock again. "There's a woman on the upper floor, where you exploded that stun grenade – she also needs medical care immediately, so get that bloody ambulance here, now!"

"Yes, Sir, right away, sir!" The man barked a string of orders, and turning back to John, he asked, "Sir, can I help you with him?" He eyed the bloodied figure suspiciously, reaching for the unconscious man's shoulder.

"Don't touch him," John warned, "he might have injured his back. Get me a first aid kit."

John was gently feeling under Sherlock's back for injuries when Sherlock's eyelids suddenly fluttered; he jerked violently, his body shaken by a coughing fit.

John grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him down. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay calm, stay on your back, don't move, okay?"

Sherlock coughed again, a liquid rattle in his throat – and suddenly there was blood bubbling on his lips. John all but panicked, fearing a punctured lung; he felt his professionalism slip away, simply because this was Sherlock and he was terrified to see the miracle slide from his fingers, until he realised that the blood did not come from the lungs: it was only the blood streaming over Sherlock's face and into his mouth and nose, and all he had to do was staunch the wound. Simple. He felt like an idiot for panicking.

John's mind switched back to professional and he tore open the first aid kit the soldier had handed him. He ripped out some gauze and pressed it against the head wound, but it was drenched immediately, so he took more gauze to wipe away the blood from Sherlock's face since it kept him from breathing properly. It was a well-meant gesture; but it triggered a terrifying reaction.

Without warning, Sherlock lashed out, sending the soldier kneeling next to him tumbling down the rubble; in a flash, he rose, his hands closing around John's throat, instantly tightening into a murderous grip.

John gasped in surprise and tried to protest, but only a choking sound came out of his mouth. He felt himself being yanked down and thrown onto his back with the full weight of Sherlock landing on top of him, knees digging painfully into his thighs. John's instincts finally kicked in, and he tried to fend off the attack, but his arms were heavy as lead, his vision started to blur and his head filled with white noise. Madly, his last thought was, 'No back injury then. I hope they don't shoot him …' Then he blacked out.

He came round to his mind nagging _SherlockMarySherlock _and he was wide awake in an instant. He hadn't been unconscious for more than a few seconds and found himself on his feet even before his vision fully cleared.

Sherlock was gone.

Cursing, John stumbled down the rubble and grabbed the nearest soldier, who was for some reason kneeling on the floor, nursing a bleeding nose. "Where is he?" John shouted.

The soldier looked at him as if he were speaking Chinese.

"The man who fell!" John yelled.

"Out," the soldier wheezed, pointing through a gaping hole in the wall. "Gone. He's mad," he added with a distinct note of respect in his voice.

John snorted, "You bet," only now realising that a second soldier was lying on the ground as well, unconscious, and both their weapons were missing. Sherlock's doing? Raising an eyebrow, he muttered, "So, now you've gone from Spock to Bond, or what?"

He briefly wondered whether that new style included women as well …

John dashed out onto the wasteland, but as soon as he was outside, his footsteps faltered.

"Oh God, no," he muttered. "Sherlock … please, no."

In front of him, a surreal scene was unfolding: Sherlock stood surrounded by soldiers, guns trained at him. Even taller in the floodlights with his face covered in blood, he looked as mad as any terrorist. He was armed with a rifle, which he was sensibly enough not pointing at anyone; instead, he was holding up a hand grenade, ready to pull the pin.

John slowly approached the circle of soldiers, holding up his hands defensively. "Sherlock. Listen to me," he urged, struggling to sound calm. With adrenaline running high, one spark was enough to make either side panic, and Sherlock would be shot down. By the look of him, he intended to set off the grenade first. "Sherlock," he repeated, "the soldiers are Mycroft's men. They are not your enemies. Put your weapons down."

"Sir," a soldier intercepted him.

"No, he knows me, let me talk to him," John demanded. The man stepped back. John licked his lips nervously, carefully phrasing the words in his mind before speaking. "Sherlock, what you're doing is entirely irrational. You're injured, you were unconscious moments ago, and you're acting on instinct." With growing fear John realized that Sherlock wasn't showing any signs of paying attention to him. "Sherlock," he tried again, his voice trembling, "you're not making sense here. Your actions are not logical." He swallowed nervously, racking his brain how to get through to him.

Desperate, he changed tack. "Sherlock! You're being a bloody idiot, for God's sake!"

Sherlock's blood-smeared features first twisted into a frown, and then a scowl.

"You are quite right, Dr. Watson," an annoyingly familiar voice stated, "and I must say it is reassuring to know that at least one person is of sound mind. My brother, clearly, is not."

John groaned: Mycroft.

Sherlock's head snapped in the direction of his brother. "Mycroft," he spat, "I want to go after Moran!"

"I know you do," Mycroft replied serenely. "That's why I ordered them to detain you."

Sherlock reared at the statement. "Let. Me. Go. Now!"

"No." Mycroft calmly passed between the soldiers and stopped in front of his brother, only a few inches away from the towering figure. John was struck by how little they seemed to have in common, the older man the epitome of a refined British gentleman, the younger brother looking like a wild thing from the woods.

"I want to go after Moran," Sherlock hissed. "You're letting him get away!" There was so much hatred in his voice that John flinched.

"And there is nothing you can do about it." Mycroft tried to stare his brother down, but Sherlock did not waver. "For God's sake Sherlock, you would only get yourself killed!" Mycroft snapped, leaning forward impatiently. "We will catch Moran, but not today."

"He'll wreak havoc first!" Sherlock spat.

Mycroft sighed. "Don't you think you yourself have caused enough chaos in one day? Thanks to you, a lot of diplomatic feathers were ruffled. Staging that military operation to get you out of Russia was difficult enough, but running off with enough explosives to blow up Downing Street did upset a lot of people, believe me, brother dear!"

"Necessary," Sherlock snarled, "since your people proved incapable of protecting John. I had to do it myself!"

"Did you really have to break into a high-security arms depot for that? But lying low until my men arrive was certainly not dramatic enough, was it, Sherlock? It had to be a bombshell!"

"I needed to distract Moran," Sherlock snapped. "What would you have suggested I do? Throw potatoes?"

Mycroft huffed in anger, his hand clutching the handle of his umbrella. "You can't just run around blowing up things, for God's sake! What am I supposed to tell the press? That a fuse blew, burning down Battersea Power Station?"

Sherlock tilted his chin up. "You're exaggerating. Battersea still stands; besides I've been blowing up plenty of things recently and no one bothered. That's the joy of being dead."

"That was in other countries, Sherlock!" Mycroft exploded. "This is London!"

"Yes, I already feel welcome." Sherlock folded his arms with the grenade still in his hand, triggering a nervous rustle among the soldiers.

John stood dumbstruck, not understanding half of it, feeling redundant between the two brothers. It was strangely familiar. "Actually, Mycroft," he mused, "I'm quite glad about Sherlock's _potatoes_. Without them, Moran would have killed me. If you'll excuse me now, I have to look after Mary."

"Why?" Sherlock's voice. Confused, almost petulant.

John froze midstep, blinking. He turned around stiffly, looking at Sherlock. "Because you almost killed her, Sherlock."

Something shifted in Sherlock's eyes, as if a horrible realization hit him, but the look was gone in an instant and John was not sure if he had imagined it.

"You pointed a gun at me," Sherlock stated, his voice expressionless.

John squirmed and looked at his feet. Raising his eyes again, he met Sherlock's inscrutable gaze. "It was the only way to stop you. You weren't listening. And you would have killed her. Right there." Softly, he added, "But I would never have pulled the trigger. Never."

"And how would you have stopped me from choking your wife?" Sherlock asked coldly, deliberately provoking him, John realized.

John pouted, then shrugged. "Clouted you around your silly head, you clot." With that, he walked away, thinking, 'That was the worst miracle ever.'


	5. Idiots

**Idiots**

Two hours later, John found himself in a hospital waiting room, trying to grasp the events of the night. Mary was still undergoing examination, but things were looking good – the X-rays had shown no broken bones. Sitting in a beige room with blue chairs, a green carpet, and children's paintings on the wall that looked like someone had thrown a paintbox at it, he tried to sort out his feelings. They were more than a little mixed.

Sherlock was alive. His miracle had been granted.

Sherlock was also extremely aggressive. Within one hour, he had shot one man, nearly killed Mary, attacked John, and threatened to blow up everyone with a hand grenade. Certainly not boring.

John tried to make sense of it, but failed. When Sherlock had ambushed him in the dark, saving his life by pinning him against the wall, he had recognised his friend easily enough, although this new violent streak had been disconcerting. But later, when Sherlock had almost killed Mary, it was as if the man had turned into a robot – not listening, not thinking, not caring about the consequences, unstoppable.

His reaction to John's attempt to treat his injuries after the fall had been just as disturbing. Coming out of unconsciousness, Sherlock was bound to be confused and react on instinct, but this degree of panic and violence was beyond normal. What had provoked it?

John guessed it had been the combination of several things: the hands holding him down, the wet cloth on his face, and half-consciousness triggering fight-or-flight mode. As an army doctor, John had a pretty good idea what sort of experience led to such reactions. It made him cringe.

Regarding Moran and Sherlock's sudden reappearance at Battersea Power Station – God, the press would have a field day! – he didn't even try to make sense of that, hoping that Sherlock would explain it to him. There was a lot to explain. For example, why he was not dead; or why he had jumped off that roof in the first place. And why he had made John watch. John was sure it had something to do with Moriarty, but he really would like an explanation, now, after three years, and an apology too for the living hell Sherlock had put him through, and some justification for staying away for so long, and to be honest, he really, really wanted to punch him for granting him this miracle and then ruining it right away. But most of all, he just wanted to hug the idiot.

Maybe punch first and hug later. That sounded sensible. If he showed up. He had no idea where Sherlock was – yet again.

In the end, it was Mycroft who did the explaining. Immaculately clad in his customary three piece suit, an umbrella swinging at his elbow, Sherlock's brother sauntered into the waiting room, looking serene. John stiffened immediately.

"John, good to see you, I hope Mary is not seriously injured?"

Given that they hadn't met in three years until the involuntary encounter among a circle of trigger-happy soldiers two hours ago, the elder Holmes seemed remarkably untroubled.

"Hopefully not, no," John grated and sat up straight.

Mycroft sat down next to him, crossing his legs.

"You knew, of course?" John asked, without looking at the elder Holmes.

Mycroft did not hesitate. "Naturally I knew Sherlock was alive. He needed resources, obviously. Both money and information."

"So he worked for you." John pursed his lips.

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "Sherlock only works for himself and his own purposes, that has not changed, John."

"Then what has?" John felt his anger rise at this careless attitude, dismissing the fact that he had been suffering for three years believing Sherlock had committed suicide.

"You tell me."

"How could I?" John barked, "I've barely met him, and in the minutes I did, he shot one man, tried to kill my wife and, oh, did a pretty good job of almost throttling me as well. Seems to be a new sport of his. He definitely didn't do that before –" he hesitated, his voice faltering. "The fall."

Mycroft looked at his umbrella, twirling it gently. "The fall, yes …"

"Care to explain?" John turned towards him, anger, disappointment and pain written all over his face – but also with a note of hope in his voice.

And Mycroft did. In dry words he described Moriarty's plan to have John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson shot if Sherlock did not kill himself, and how the criminal mastermind had blown his own brains out to prevent Sherlock from making him call off the snipers, forcing Sherlock to go ahead with his dangerous plan to jump off the roof of St. Bart's.

"How exactly he faked the suicide is something he will have to tell you himself, for he did not care to explain it to me. He spent the last three years trying to track down every single person who knew about Moriarty's plan, and who would therefore be able to carry it out or pose a danger in any other way. In doing so, he uncovered quite a number of crimes and delivered several high-profile criminals to the respective governments – or at least ensured that their activities stopped. Moran is the last man he's hunting. He was the sniper trained on you, John, and what is more important, he was Moriarty's right hand man. Ruthless, skilled and loyal. Possibly capable of taking over at least part of Moriarty's business. His intentions are clear: he wants to kill you and then take Moriarty's place."

John looked at the bodyguards standing outside the waiting room. So from now on he wouldn't even be allowed to make a trip to the loo without company.

"Of course, that is not going to happen," Mycroft continued, taking out his pocket watch and looking at it. "He cannot truly take Moriarty's place. Moran is no fool, but he is by no means brilliant." He put the watch back into the fob. "He'll be a decent enough criminal, though. Mediocrity suffices, I suppose," he sighed.

John scoffed, "Yeah, what the world has come to."

"No need to be sarcastic, John," Mycroft smiled mildly. "However, protection for you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson is essential. Though I believe Moran is interested in you alone." He looked up, his blue eyes searching John's face. "You certainly have caught his attention. You were a soldier, just like him, and tonight you have proven that you are more than his match." He raised an eyebrow. "He enjoys the hunt as much as Moriarty enjoyed the game."

John closed his eyes and groaned. "God, I am _so_ fed up with this."

"Understandable." Mycroft stared at the wall, his attention seemingly straying.

John pursed his lips. "So, where is he?"

Mycroft frowned. "We don't know, Moran does know how to hide –"

"I'm not interested in Moran," John snapped.

"Ah," Mycroft stiffened, probably because he was not used to being wrong in his assumptions. "Sherlock. Of course."

"I thought _he_ would do the explaining." John couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice. Still, he braced himself before asking, "How badly injured is he? I mean, he did take quite a fall, _again,"_ he added, his eyebrows shooting up. When he did not receive an answer, he asked in a much softer voice. "How is he?"

"I don't know," Mycroft said flatly.

"What do you mean you don't know?" John snapped in irritation. "Don't tell me he has run off again! Mycroft, seriously, _you_ don't lose people like that –"

"And I don't." Mycroft stabbed at the floor with his umbrella. "No, I have made very sure my dear little brother does not slip away this time. But I don't know how he is – if you are referring to his physical and mental state. He cannot be touched."

"What do you mean, he cannot be touched?" John stared at him in utter confusion. "He was bleeding quite a lot –"

"He doesn't allow anyone to touch him. You'll see."

John fell silent. He didn't know what to make of this, but it sounded bad. He thought back to Sherlock trying to choke him. John cleared his throat. "Mycroft, I don't know what happened to him, but the way he reacted after the fall when he was barely conscious and I tried to help him – is it possible that he was –"

Mycroft cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Do not mention any of this to him. Now is not the time, John. You of all people know how important it is that the victim is ready to talk about it. Sherlock, clearly, is not."

"Oh-kay," John frowned. "So, what exactly happened? You mentioned you had him rescued from – uh – Russia?" John looked at Mycroft questioningly, but Mycroft seemed to freeze up. "Oh, come on," John mocked, "don't tell me I wasn't supposed to know, and you were so angry out there you blabbed about it. I was a soldier, Mycroft, I've handled confidential information before." Taking on a threatening tone, he added, "Don't you think you owe me a few answers, after three, bloody years?"

"Yes, you are right," Mycroft conceded. "Very well. You are correct, Sherlock was captured a while ago and held prisoner in Russia. He had obtained secret information – a lot of it, accumulated over three years."

"What kind of information?" John interrupted.

"All kinds. Ranging from counterintelligence and organized crime to terrorist activities. Whatever he came across in connection with Moriarty plus several tasks I had given him, since he was in a unique position-"

"You mean, no one knew about his existence," John grated. "No rules. I bet that came in handy."

"It did." Mycroft was untroubled. "However, his last task remains unfinished. Sherlock was captured, but before he was taken, he managed to hide the phone on which he had stored the data. Very valuable data, believe me." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "He was only sporadically able to transfer data to me, so most of the material was actually on his phone. It is a special phone, of course."

"Of course." John scoffed. "I bet something like Irene Adler's, a fancy gadet that can store date, cook pasta and blow up the building if you punch in the wrong number."

Mycroft gave him a long look. "Not quite, but not too far off either. The phone is indeed secure – it cannot be unlocked without Sherlock's password. If someone attempts to take it apart, the data is destroyed."

"You said he hid it – you've got the phone, then?"

Mycroft remained silent for a while. "No, we don't. Sherlock was on top of a building when he-"

"Oh no, no," John groaned, "not another rooftop. Please tell me this is a joke."

"It is not. And apparently, he did consider jumping, being fully aware of what was awaiting him."

"But he didn't," John sighed in relief.

"He was too busy hiding the phone," Mycroft deadpanned. "He was simply too slow."

"Your sympathy is overwhelming." John rubbed his eyes. "Who took him, and why?"

"The Americans. They wanted the phone, of course."

"Americans?" John looked up in surprise. "You said he was in Russia?"

"Yes, but he was taken by the Americans."

"I thought the Americans are our friends and brothers?" John mocked.

"Sherlock is not exactly in the good graces of the Americans – remember the scandal in Belgravia, John. And since he didn't exist anyway …"

"Yes, it works both ways, doesn't it? No rules." John gritted his teeth. "How did you get him out?"

"I made a deal with the Russians, naturally."

"Naturally."

"Well, that was only logical – after all, the Russians wanted the phone too and they were extremely displeased to learn that the American secret service was operating under their very noses on their own territory."

"The phone in exchange for Sherlock?"

Mycroft nodded, and John pursed his lips. "Fair enough."

"Not quite." Mycroft's mouth twitched in annoyance. "The phone was gone. We don't know where it is. It's lost."

John sat up. "Lost? But how-"

"How did I get him out? Well, the Russians have what they asked for: the phone the Americans had." He smirked. "It's a fake."

"What?" John stared at Mycroft in utter confusion. "Hold on." He frowned deeply. "Sorry, Mycroft, it was a long day, I'm still a bit rattled by an explosion, nearly dying, and discovering that my dead friend is in fact alive. Humour me. I'm a bit slow."

Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It is quite simple, but ingenious. Sherlock hid the real phone – and unfortunately it is lost. We don't know where it currently is. Neither the Americans nor the Russians have it. However, Sherlock had a second phone, a decoy, which the Americans mistook for the real thing."

"So all this time the Americans – and now the Russians – were trying to crack the wrong phone."

"Yes."

"Nice. But the Russians are bound to find out–"

"No. Sherlock spent months on storing false data on the decoy phone. It seems genuine – and even if they figure it out one day, they won't complain. Embarrassment, you see." Mycroft smiled sweetly.

"I see." John shook his head. "No, I don't. But – if it was a decoy in the first place, why didn't he give the Americans the password? No damage done?"

"Oh, Sherlock knew he was dead the moment they had the password. He relied on me to find him and get him out."

John remained silent for a long time. "And you did," he said in a soft voice.

Mycroft sighed. "Unfortunately, it took me much longer than I had hoped."

"But you weren't too late," John breathed in relief.

"I'm not sure about that."

"What do you mean?" John's eyes widened with apprehension.

Mycroft hesitated, almost biting his lip, but stopping short, realizing how tell-tale the gesture would be. "Sherlock was tortured, as you have already guessed. He is extremely unstable. I do not have to explain this to you, John, you have first-hand experience. I have been trying to convince him to accept help, but you can imagine how difficult that is. However," his face brightened almost imperceptibly, "I came to an agreement with him that he will undergo treatment once this threat to you and your friends is over."

John rubbed his forehead. "Oh God. Oh dear God have mercy." He buried his face in his hands, trying to process the information. Finally, he looked up. "So, we catch Moran, cut the last thread of Moriarty's net, and Sherlock undergoes therapy. And if we're very lucky, all of us get away with no more than a few scrapes and bruises."

"That's the plan," Mycroft said evenly.

"Somehow, that seems too easy," John sighed.

* * *

Mary was sitting in a hospital bed, pale as a sheet, her throat bandaged. Apparently, she had refused to wear a neck brace, and she was glaring disapprovingly at the cheap gown. When John entered, she proceeded to glare at John.

He stopped dead in his tracks, eying her warily. He hadn't expected her to be angry – but on second thoughts, it was _his_ best friend who had almost killed her, and he had spent a long time running after said best friend, abandoning her in a derelict building swarming with soldiers. He instantly felt so guilty his stomach heaved. When she read this on his face, she broke into a grin and gestured with her hands.

John frowned in confusion and looked at her like a very unhappy puppy. She laughed – almost; the sound was instantly cut off and had her wincing in pain. But finally, he understood her gestures: she wanted pen and paper. John went to fetch some.

She huffed with relief when she got hold of the notepad, virtually tearing it from his fingers. After scribbling furiously, she pushed the pad at his face.

John slowly read out the sprawling letters. _I want to go home. NOW._

He looked up. "Mary, it would be better if you stayed at least one night to be watched–"

It was the loudest _NO_ ever written. John's eyebrows rose. "Okay, I suppose I'm a doctor, too, and I can watch you as well."

Scratching._ Good._

"Okay," John cleared his throat, looking around. "I guess I can't just call a taxi, Mycroft's men …" he trailed off, realising that he had to explain the situation to Mary, particularly the bit about the killer. Oh God. Sherlock would not be very popular with his wife, ever.

She glowered at him. His words died on his lips.

Mary started writing again. _So, this is Sherlock?_

"Uh, yes, the guy who mistook you for some member of a criminal gang …"

Scribbling again. _I want to meet him._

"Oh." John looked baffled. "Yeah, in fact, so do I. But don't you think it would be better – I mean, when you have a voice?" He eyed her carefully.

_Need no voice. He can deduce me. _

"I suppose so," John muttered. "I just thought you might want to be able to yell at him?"

She grinned.

"Listen," John looked down, shuffling his feet. "I think I have some explaining to do about Sherlock's behaviour-"

The notepad almost hit the tip of his nose, being waved in front of him – he flinched and jerked back, realizing that this was Mary's way of telling him to shut up.

She scribbled again. _The Ice Man was here. No need to explain. Want to meet Sherlock asap._

"Mycroft spoke to you?" John's eyebrows almost met his hairline. The elder Holmes must have been to see his wife before he had spoken to John. "Uhm, okay. Good. Then you know. I better arrange for us to be going home, then–" He was so confused he forgot to look at the pad where Mary had been scribbling again. It was shoved emphatically into his face.

_YOU must talk to Sherlock NOW. The Ice Man's no good. Make up with Sherlock. _

"Uh, Mary, I'd love to make up with Sherlock, it's just … all a bit much and, uh, he tried to choke you …"

Furious scribbling. _I'll take it out on him later. For now, he needs to understand that he's welcome._

"He's welcome," John repeated, as if his reading skills didn't exceed those of a seven-year-old. "Is he?" He looked at her questioningly, his brow drawn in the deepest frown.

_YES. Idiot. _

"Idiot? D'you mean idiot me, or idiot him?"

_BOTH_.

John sighed. "You know, you remind me A LOT of him."

Mary grinned.


	6. Effigy

**Author's note: Hi guys, a big thank you to all those who follow my story, and an even bigger thank you for the lovely reviews – you really made me happy! **

**Two (shorter) chapters today, because they belong together.**

**Effigy**

So this was MI6 inside. Unglamorous.

What Sherlock was doing here was beyond John's grasp, but with Sherlock you never knew – perhaps he had acquired information on a particularly salacious scandal on his three-year walk on the wild side, and some foreign government was now miffed, giving Mycroft a headache.

John was being escorted down a corridor with offices, at this time of the night deserted. The two men in dark suits indicated a door, then withdrew silently.

John took a deep breath and straightened up. Suddenly, his heart was fluttering and his throat felt tight. That, however, reminded him of Sherlock choking him, and the memory was not helpful.

Over the years he had imagined their reunion hundreds of times in dozens of ways, mostly involving cursing, punching, and hugging, but never awkwardness in as dull a place as an office. He cleared his throat and tried to lift his spirits, but as soon as he pushed the door open and saw Sherlock standing in front of the window, his back to him, he knew reconnecting wasn't going to be easy.

John blinked in surprise: he was wearing his coat. It had to be a replica; he would never forget the dreadful moment when he had collected the bloodied Belstaff from the morgue, burying his face in the heavy fabric, believing that the scent worn into the wool was the last trace of Sherlock he would ever have.

The memory brought back the days following the fall, when he had felt as if someone had drained all the blood from his body, leaving him a walking dead, unable to cry or mourn. The blackness that had enveloped him for more than a year, rendering everything meaningless, threatened to return, and he almost staggered at the mere memory. He quickly put his hands on a chair and tried to push the feeling away. Sherlock was alive, he was back, and they had a chance of starting anew. Or so he hoped.

Silence greeted him from the window. John swallowed nervously, suddenly tongue-tied – what do you say to a supposedly dead friend? _Hi, how are you?_ Hardly. He looked left, looked right, then said, "So, you're alive." He dug his fingers into the back of the chair, realizing that he was stating the obvious, and Sherlock hated that. He sensed the tiniest bit of movement from him, as if he were about to comment, and in his mind he already heard the annoyed _obvious_, but it never came.

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock …"

No reaction.

John frowned, wondering whether Sherlock had not registered him coming in – but this was impossible. John took a deep breath, trying hard not to feel like a schoolboy in the headmaster's office. This was ridiculous, they were both grown men, they had risked their lives for each other and no matter what had happened, all they needed to do was talk.

Only, with Sherlock nothing was ever that simple.

John mentally kicked himself and decided to end this ridiculous impasse. Only hours ago, they had been fine, almost back to their former state, Sherlock pushing the gun into his hands and ordering him to go after Moran – that was the man he knew and trusted, not this silent effigy. Somewhere beneath this frozen surface was the Sherlock he knew, and he was damned if he didn't drag him out.

He let go of the chair, marched around the table and approached Sherlock from the side – not from behind, his past experience told him to be careful. He had no intention of reaching out and touching him, no matter how badly he ached to do so – God, it would be wonderful to feel the warmth of this strong body, to take in that familiar scent – but no. Sherlock had not been keen on those small gestures of affection even before the fall, and Mycroft's warning was still fresh in his memory.

Yet, Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, expecting a hand on his shoulder. It hurt John beyond reason that he obviously loathed his touch so much, and it annoyed him immensely that Sherlock expected him to be careless enough to cause him discomfort. He should have known he would never touch him if he did not like it.

John felt a wave of bitterness wash over him, and suddenly he remembered all those moments when Sherlock had hurt him, calling him an idiot, hissing at him that he did not have friends, nearly driving him out of his mind with that cruel experiment in the Baskerville lab and finally making him watch his suicide, shattering his own life the very moment his body hit the pavement. If Moriarty had burned Sherlock's heart out of him, Sherlock had ripped John's heart from his body just as well. That he still lived and breathed and loved he owed to Mary.

Yet, Sherlock had saved him from Moriarty's killer – so he cared, or at least had cared three years ago.

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock's head jerked to the side, just enough to acknowledge John's presence; but his gaze was fixed on the floor. John would have given a lot to look into those iridescent eyes again, their hues shifting in the light from sea green to ice-blue, like the inside of a sea shell. The last time he had seen them properly, they had been grey and dead.

But Sherlock never met his gaze. His lips parted and quivered faintly, but it seemed to take an eternity until he finally spoke, and when he did, he sounded cool and distant.

"Mycroft and I are working on a plan to capture Moran. Your home is being refitted to be secure right now, so you should be able to return soon. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are both under Mycroft's protection, though neither know that I am alive yet. Moran needs to be neutralised first. I suggest we postpone all other issues."

John stood ramrod straight, feeling numb, as if he had just received a massive blow to the head. He had expected all kinds of reactions from Sherlock, from complete incomprehension of his emotions to sizzling energy in anticipation of the hunt – but not such coldness.

He swallowed hard, struggling to remain in control of his emotions. He was torn between slapping Sherlock across the face and crying with disappointment, but he refused to grant him either – he needed to remain in control of himself.

"Right," John bit out. "All other issues. Huh. You don't deem them important, then. But I do. I want to talk to you, Sherlock. I want you to explain–"

"No."

"No?" John gaped, fighting a sudden rush of anger. "Okay, listen, I understand you don't want to be distracted right now, but please–"

"No."

John stared at the man's profile. It was carved in stone; no human reaction. "Why?" He breathed.

Sherlock answered in a flat tone. "I do not want you to burden me with your emotional chaos."

John stared at him, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach. It took a while until the magnitude of the insult had sunken in. He nodded slightly, turned on his heel and stiffly marched to the door.

Stopping, he said without turning around, "I just hope there will be a chance to talk later. People die sometimes, you know."

With that, he slammed the door behind him, burning with rage and nauseous from the ugly feeling of having been betrayed.

Three years of mourning and then his feelings weren't important. Worse, they were a burden.

He had waited three bloody years - for an insult. He was not important. Obviously.


	7. Hollow Man

… **and here's the second one for today.**

**Hollow Man**

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands. He suppressed a sudden urge to smash the window with his fist. Where did this paralysis come from? Why could he not speak? Why? Whywhywhy? Words never failed him, he was never at a loss for an answer, what had John once called him? _He's_ _Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word._

Abruptly, he turned around and sat down, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of his face. He had just screwed up on a truly grand scale. By refusing to talk. Usually, people became upset because he talked. They were annoyed by what he said or the way he said it or his timing of saying it – but not by him remaining silent. Surely, this was a new record: blowing up a relationship in less than five minutes by remaining silent. Bravo.

Suddenly, he became aware of a stabbing pain in his hands – surprised, he unclasped them, realizing that he had been digging his fingernails into the flesh, drawing blood. Annoyed, he fumbled for a tissue in his coat, but finding none, he rummaged in his suit jacket instead. Suddenly, the room felt stifling hot and he jumped up, tearing off coat and jacket and dumping it on a chair.

His phone fell out. Sherlock slowly picked it up, staring at the reflection of his pale face on the black screen. He closed his eyes for a moment, organising his thoughts. He could not speak, but he could write. Had done so for a long time, when there was no John to talk to. For three years he had written down what troubled him on his phone, only to lose it in Russia. He could do it again. John had to know, and if he could not tell him, he would have to read it. Some day.

Suddenly, his heart beat faster and he broke into a sweat. He briefly wondered whether the bloody pneumonia was giving him a fever now but instantly decided to ignore it. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and touched the screen of the phone. It lit up in brilliant colours. He hesitated for a second, but then opened a text document and started to type, his fingers flying over the keys as they had done countless times before.

* * *

_John, _

_when you came in, I almost froze with fear. I never meant to greet you with my back turned, what sort of a welcome is that? But I didn't know what to do and in all this indecision I failed to do anything – which was a bit not good, as you would say. _

_I felt the tension coming from you, how you racked your brain trying to think of something harmless to say – and failing, you stated the obvious, that I'm alive. I was about to snap _obviously_ – it's a reflex, and at the very last moment I realized how aggressive that would have sounded, so I remained silent, and that was the worst possible thing to do. _

_I wanted to say: I've missed you. Your voice, the quiet way you move, the looks you give me – amazed, annoyed, worried, even furious - but never indifferent. I never knew how much that meant to me until I lost it. _

_But I said nothing. There were so many lonely nights when I desperately tried to recall your voice and your presence from my memory._

_But a memory only leaves you aching for the real thing. And now that you're here, it is almost too much, it is overwhelming and I cannot process it and it physically hurts when I find myself with everything I wanted in one instant, and so I just stand and stare. I'm like a starved man being served the most opulent dish, too weak to lift the hand to the mouth. _

_And then you called me by my name. _

_I love the way you say _Sherlock_. Not many address me by my first name, and those who do either say it in annoyance or in confusion or to warn me off. This is how they see me, I guess: a problem, a nuisance, a threat. You, however, see the human being in its complexity, strengths and weaknesses and all.  
_

_You have twenty-three different ways of pronouncing my name, varying in stress and pitch, and each version has at least five different degrees of intensity, relaying all your emotions – those two syllables hold as much information as if you delivered an entire speech. _

_I must make an effort and speak to you. I owe you so much and failed to give a single word. So I try to remember all the polite ways in which conversations can be opened – I have catalogued them all; and what came to my mind? _How's your wife?

_A bit not good, given I almost killed her._

_John, I never meant to harm her. I didn't know it was her. When I came across her, out on the wasteland, she was checking the man I had shot for signs of life. Your wife, John, is not as unobservant as average people: she actually spied me coming – and instead of panicking, she grabbed the man's gun and ran inside the building to hide from me. I have no doubt she would have shot at me – she does have courage and that convinced me that she worked for Moran. I never knew it was her, John, I thought your wife was an ivory-tower academic who teaches ancient languages at the university – how stupid, stupid of me! She was bound to be a formidable woman – you married her. Or rather, vice versa._

_I have no excuse for what happened next. All I can offer is my point of view._

_I found her hiding place. I ambushed her and wrenched the gun from her hand, and Lord, did she put up a fight – she is quite a handful, and passionate, I can't help but imagine the two of you … no, this is none of my business._

_John, I failed to deduce it was Mary – God, you must think I did it on purpose, the oh-so-observant consulting detective not being able to deduce that the woman was just an innocent bystander. Perhaps you think I tried to kill your wife to get rid of her. _

_No, you don't. I'm sorry.  
_

_If you believed that, you wouldn't be here, trying to speak with me. You know me better than that. Sorry for getting it wrong again. I get a lot of things wrong, lately. Maybe it's because there's something wrong with me, and of course you have noticed it. _

_I find it hard to explain. I hope I'm making any sense here._

_It was the perfume. I don't know whether you're aware of it, but Mary wears an excessively expensive perfume, hand made and hard to get. Until this day I thought it was a bespoke perfume and therefore unique – I thought I would never smell it again, certainly not on another person. For various reasons I associate the smell with some extremely stressful situations. It triggers an instinctive reaction in me, entirely irrational but almost impossible to control. _

_God, I sound so clinical. I'm trying to explain, but it means calling up memories I prefer to leave untouched for a while. They are too unsettling to deal with at the moment. _

_I have to. _

_I can't. _

_I will tell you later. _

_Let me cut this short: I was tortured, and the perfume triggers that memory. Unfortunately, you also smell faintly of that perfume – probably because you hugged your wife. Hence the attack on you. I'm sorry for that, I know you tried to help me, and I fear I have given you another traumatizing experience, with me falling from a dangerous height yet again. There are some things you don't get used to, I suppose. _

_But I think if anybody understands the mechanics of flashbacks, it is you. I assume you already guessed that I was tortured, and I believe you also inferred from my reaction which procedure I was subjected to. _

_It left me oversensitive, John, hence I avoid being touched. In an unexpected situation, normal touch can cause me acute physical pain. Somehow, my whole system has been thrown off-balance – sometimes, the world is far too loud, the lights are too bright, the voices become indistinguishable and it all comes crashing down like a huge wave, threatening to drown me. Drowning is a frightening experience; you can't think, all rational thought is stifled, you just struggle and lash out blindly._

_I have had problems with sensory overload as a child, but I learned to channel the endless flow of data. Until recently, I was perfectly able to control it. Somehow, that mechanism has been damaged, resulting in violent overreactions. _

_Lately, the smell and texture of food makes me sick, which is ridiculous since I managed just fine during those three years – you taught me the importance of taking care of my transport, so I did. I keep trying, but everything is more difficult these days. _

_At least I still enjoy my tea. I'd probably lose the British citizenship if I didn't. _

_I will get better, I promise – I do not want to cause you even more concern, and I dislike being a walking threat. Well, at least to those who are important to me. I wouldn't mind hitting Mycroft, you can't go wrong with that. Though I have to admit he has been an invaluable help to me during the hiatus, and I do not consider him my archenemy anymore. You know who that is. _

_Now you come round the table and approach me. I know you won't grasp my shoulder, I'm sure Mycroft has warned you, and you're too considerate to satisfy your need to touch me – you must feel an overwhelming urge to hug or punch me. I think I'd prefer to be punched – a punch is meant to hurt, it would be a relief, it would feel right. A hug that causes pain is an abomination I cannot tolerate in my memory – everything associated with you should be good._

_Did I flinch? Really? So I hurt you again. It hurts me more, John, if I could only tell you. But I remain silent._

_And now I can almost hear how your mind is reeling, and all those memories must come flooding back, all the times I insulted you, misused you, hurt you in the most abominable way, highhandedly placing my needs above yours and trampling all over your feelings just because I think sentiment is a weakness. _

_I am weak now. Too weak to express sentiment. _

_Moriarty is only partly to blame for what happened; you could say I had it coming. You are in so many ways much stronger than I am, John, and I know I owe it to Mary that you are still the person I left and not just a hollow man._

_Now I finally say something. Is that my voice? I suppose so, but it sounds alien. What am I saying? That we're hunting Moran and that everything else has to wait. _

_This is the one moment when silence would have been better. Of course it is the very moment I choose to speak, ruining everything with a perfectly sensible and totally callous comment._

_And there's more: I insult you, horribly, and on purpose. I am being cruel, I know, but John, I need to stop you from prying further right now. I can't handle this, not now, I simply can't. I don't want to lie to you, though I know I'm deceiving you anyway. _

_I'm sorry._

_It is pathetic that I have to write instead of saying this to your face. I've lost my words and it seems I'm losing my mind: half-way through this silly explanation I switched to present tense, reliving every single moment of it. _

_So be it. I live in hell. It's my own fault._

_I hope you can forgive me. _

_S_


	8. Marked

**Thank you again for your wonderful reviews!**

**Marked**

Sherlock had done it again: he had manipulated him.

Hit by that realisation, John stopped dead in his tracks at the end of the dreary corridor, somewhere inside the maze of the MI6 building.

The two men who had brought him here had reappeared miraculously as soon as he had stepped out of the office, and they were now looking expectantly at him. But they never spoke a word. John cleared his throat and said, "Look, guys, I, um, need some time to think, so if you could just leave me alone for a moment? Or two?"

They nodded curtly at each other, then at him, and withdrew, undoubtedly keeping an eye on him the whole time.

John groaned and walked over to a window, staring out into the darkness, wondering what the hell had possessed him to allow Sherlock to play him like this. Again.

He was furious with Sherlock and with himself: Sherlock had thrown that insult at him, apparently as some kind of bait, and he had swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. It had been cold and deliberate. But why?

He couldn't figure out Sherlock's reasons, though his intention was obvious: to get rid of John and avoid talking to him.

John kept clenching his hands in anger while he tried to remain rational, but he found it very hard. Three years apart and Sherlock still knew how to push his buttons. Whatever had made Sherlock drive him away like this, he would not let him succeed. Not this time.

A small voice in his mind warned him that anger was not a good basis for talking sense. Unsurprisingly, it sounded a lot like Mary. Yes, he had to calm down first.

John huffed and hummed for a long time, trying to control his breathing and his anger, until he felt ready to go back. He reminded himself that Sherlock had been tortured, and however cool and in control he appeared, the experience had traumatized him. He couldn't be held responsible for his actions. John was a doctor, and he would maintain a professional distance.

Feeling a lot more confident, he marched back to the office, pulled open the door and strode right in.

They both looked at each other in surprise: Sherlock clearly had not expected him to return; and John was astounded to find the detective hunched over his phone, one finger lingering on the screen while his left hand was tearing at his curls. No coat, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, flushed cheeks in a too pale face, and –

Oh my God. No. Please, no.

His arms.

John acted in shock. He moved forward, reaching out for Sherlock's arms; Sherlock recoiled instantly, a look of pure horror on his face. John froze mid-movement, his mouth open, no sound emerging. He stared and stared, unwilling to process what his eyes took in, refusing to see, refusing to accept.

Neither of them moved. Sherlock's face quickly morphed back into a mask of blankness, his eyes hard and calculating.

John swallowed and turned his head away, momentarily shutting out the ugly reality. He felt such a surge of rage rushing through him that he had to seize the edge of the table to stop his hands from grabbing Sherlock by the shirt and shaking him. He wanted to yell at him, 'Are you completely out of your mind?! How can you do this to you, how can you do this to all of us?'

But of course it would be entirely useless. Instead, he leaned forward, gripping the table even harder; he forced his voice to be calm, but he did not try to conceal his fury and his disgust.

"Care to explain?" He nodded at Sherlock's arms, staring him in the eyes. "Or is that another issue you intend to postpone?"

Sherlock slowly straightened his back and folded his hands on the table so that his naked arms were clearly visible. He sat with his lips pressed together, looking at John with an utterly expressionless face, never blinking.

John shook his head in disbelief. "You're provoking me. You want me to hit you." He gave a joyless laugh, struggling to regain control. "I won't let you drag me down to this." He grimaced and bowed his head between his shoulders, then straightened abruptly. "I just won't."

He marched to the door, but livid with anger, he grabbed the door handle and turned around. "Sherlock, if you think you can drive me away, you're wrong. I won't let you. And you _will_ talk to me after we have captured Moran. I won't allow you to manipulate me any longer, and you're certainly not going to get rid of me."

He slammed the door shut with such force that the calender on the wall fell off its hook.

Blinking, Sherlock gazed at his arms, faintly surprised.

Track marks.

He had completely forgotten about them. How was that even possible?

Stunned, he realised that he hadn't even had cravings since his return, despite his dark mood. Was he so beyond caring that he did not even yearn for the relief of the drug?

No. That was not it. He closed his eyes and tried to untangle the turmoil of emotions warring inside him. It was the hunt, he realized, the need to eliminate the danger to John and his friends once and for all; it had kept him so busy that he hadn't paid any attention to his body. Trying to dissociate himself from the aches and endless demands of this bundle of flesh and bones had been vital for too long – it had become a habit; but how else to endure torture?

Another thought struck him, and he hissed at himself in anger – how could he forget? How could he be so stupid?

Stupid, stupid!

The depression. Of course. _Withdrawal_.

He actually smiled at the realisation, running his fingers over the dark punctures in his skin. They were healing. Eventually, the depression would fade, too. The only question was whether he would live to see the day.

He picked up the phone and resumed writing.

* * *

_John,_

_You are brilliant! _

_Of course, you got it all wrong; you see but you don't observe, as always. But that is not important; what matters is that you made me realise something I had missed. For the first time in years, I feel – hopeful. _

_Yes, of course these are track marks, and they are caused by injecting cocaine. But if you employed that brain of yours, you would instantly realise that none of them are old, yet there are no new ones either. No scars, no weight loss indicating long-term drug abuse – so, regular injections over a short period only, stopping several days ago. Where was I at that time? Right. _

_I didn't inject myself, silly._

_I'm sure you'll come to that conclusion eventually, once your anger has abated. I admit your assumption is not entirely illogical: cocaine does have the beneficial effects of increasing endurance and improving my ability to focus, which is useful when you're on stakeouts or fleeing from enemies. However, the drawbacks of psychological dependence – far worse than physical addiction – are too significant to revert to such means. I don't have to tell you that cocaine, after the initial and deplorably short euphoric phase, can cause severe psychoses with acute paranoia, including the infamous delusional parasitosis. _

_And that, my friend, makes it a fine tool for torture, particularly if you intend to achieve a long-term effect on a former drug user. _

_They've done a mediocre job, though. I don't mind bugs and I've had no cravings so far; and if I did, I would not give in to them, simply because I would not grant them this victory. _

_On second thoughts, I admit they may have been more successful than I've given them credit for. After all, you now think I've fallen back into my old habits. _

_But there is something else._

_I told you about Mary's perfume. And you know that smells can trigger cravings as well as flashbacks. Unfortunately, in my memory the smell of that perfume is linked to the forced injections of cocaine and the subsequent episodes of paranoia. It was done deliberately: I was literally conditioned to accept the smell as a trigger, hence my attack on your wife. Hardly pure chance, don't you think?_

_But who would devise something as devious and malicious as that? Give it some thought, please._

_Now, I did sound a bit more like my old self again, did I not? _

_Maybe, just maybe, everything will be all right in the end. I dare to hope, because you said you would not leave me. And yes, I will talk to you. Maybe not in words. Not yet.  
_

_Thank you, my conductor of light. _

_S_


	9. Plotting

**Thank you again for your reviews and for reading! **

**To Howlynn: Your comment made me smile because I was puzzling over the same thing when writing the scene, but then decided that John was so angry that he lost his temper and had to leave, otherwise he would have punched Sherlock. I guess John relies on Mycroft to have an eye on his little brother, which he does as we'll see later ... constructive criticism is always welcome, so thank you! **

**Plotting**

Mary sat and listened to John's rant, sometimes interrupting with quietly asked questions in a hoarse voice, although she was supposed to speak as little as possible. Having left the hospital at her own risk, she was now reclining on the cream-coloured sofa in their Kensington home, basking in the morning light, a steaming cup of tea next to her. Her shoulders were swathed in a pale blue cashmere blanket, and she obligingly lifted her legs for him to sit down, now that he had finished pacing the room in fury, finally running out of words.

John placed her wriggling feet in his lap and tickled her absentmindedly. Exhausted and disappointed, he was glad to feel the warm weight of a sensible person close to him. He let out a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. "Track marks, Mary. It's horrible to see on anyone, but on him …"

She tilted her head to the side. "Makes him vulnerable, hm?"

John looked at her, frowning. "Yeah. And stupid. God, the risks! Infection, overdose, addiction – I don't even want to think about him out there, prowling the streets and doing God knows what to feed this need! Unclean needles, impurities in the drugs, abuse – Jesus! Do you know how many people get robbed, beaten and raped because they are high and helpless? How could he! Just how–"

"John." She gave him a stern look.

"What?" He frowned at her in concern.

"Are you sure about this?"

"There's no mistaking _track marks_."

"I know." She moved closer and smoothed away the frown on his forehead with one finger. "I mean long term abuse. He didn't look like an addict to me."

He could see how she struggled not to give in to the impuls to clear her throat. "Well, addiction would sure as hell explain his erratic behaviour! Anyway, how do you know he didn't look like an addict?" he frowned. "I mean, it was dark and he attacked you, don't tell me you had time and leisure to study his physique!"

Mary snorted. "Being strangled involves close physical contact." She obviously wanted to say more, but gave up, her throat probably hurting as if she had swallowed rusty nails. John sighed and grasped her hand, overwhelmed by the need to be comforted.

Mary gently squeezed his thumb. "Just think about it." She took her cup of tea and drank carefully, flinching in pain.

John watched her, pondering what she had said. "It's true," he slowly said. "I think the marks were all fairly new. But I didn't get the chance to look at him properly; and that's just what Sherlock would do, you know, taking drugs to keep functioning when he can't go on anymore." He shook his head in desperation. "I don't know, Mary! I can't say whether there were old track marks as well, he wouldn't let me touch him! What if Mycroft's got it wrong for once and Sherlock's don't-touch-me thing is just a way of hiding his drug abuse? Or a sign of drug related paranoia? You know, addicts often believe they have _bugs_ crawling under their skin."

Mary gave him a withering look.

"Okay," John sighed. "No, you're right. On second thoughts, his captors probably knew about his former addiction and used it against him. It's also an easy way to get rid of a corpse – make it look like Sherlock slipped back into old habits and overdosed." He groaned. "Oh God! I got it wrong." Pouting, he declared, "I'm not going to apologize to the git. He could have told me!"

Mary sniggered. "You see, but don't observe?"

"Right. Yeah, that's what he would say. Damnit, even with this he managed to manipulate me. Only _he_ can to do that, the bloody annoying complete idiot … " he trailed off into a string of abuse that sounded more like terms of endearment.

Mary dug her toes into his groin, wriggling them just enough to tease.

"What are you doing?" John gasped.

"Manipulating you," she whispered, smiling cheekily.

"With your feet?"

"Want my hands?" she countered straight faced.

John swallowed, visibly blushing. "Any time."

"I wouldn't mind a comfort cuddle later," Mary smiled, "but right now we need to sort this out. You said Sherlock never liked contact with people. You told me when you met him for the first time you thought he might have some form of autism, though high-functioning."

John hummed in agreement. "Yeah, but with Sherlock you never know – and he changed. When we lived together, it was like he was becoming more accessible … at least with me. He let me in, Mary, he was impatient and unsympathetic with everyone else, but with me he took the time to explain what was going on in his mind; he seemed to rely on me to mediate between him and the rest of the world, and he didn't mind me invading his personal space. He once came into the flat with a knife wound, bleeding all over the carpet, and he had passed at least one hospital on his way home! He didn't want strangers to touch him but was fine with me doing it. He's not the hugging type, but when it was necessary, he showed no reluctance and made no fuss, so I stitched him up plenty of times. Now he flinches when I just move into his direction." He threw his hands into the air, then buried his face in them. "I don't know him anymore. I don't know what happened and he won't explain. There's just silence."

Mary thought about it. "John, you're a doctor, you've been to war, you have seen and experienced your fair share of horror. You may not know what happened, but I'm sure you can imagine a range of things that may have caused this. Leave out your own feelings and look at him as a doctor. What would your diagnosis be?"

"I'm not a psychiatrist, Mary."

"Your time in Afghanistan provides you with more experience in the field than a London based shrink treating stressed out city boys."

"True." He closed his eyes and thought for a long time. Finally, he sighed. "Traumatized. Severely. Depressed, definitely, plus drug withdrawal, and possibly psychosis."

Mary sat up and took hold of his hands. "You say he wasn't an extrovert in the first place. Now add a streak of autism and three years of solitude."

"Oh God," John muttered, closing his eyes.

"You know what loneliness did to you, John. Imagine him, on his own. The silence doesn't seem so strange then, does it?" she asked quietly.

John just groaned, then hugged her and buried his face in her shoulder. "You're right."

She rubbed his back thoughtfully. "John, whatever your own feelings are and no matter how legitimate they are, if you want Sherlock back, then holding a grudge is not helpful. You can save that for later."

"You mean save the punching and do the talking," he muttered into her shoulder.

"Exactly."

Squeezing her tighter, he moaned, "I wish I could just burn that bloody silence away."

"You can't burn silence," Mary replied calmly. "Only break it."

John snorted. "I have a feeling we're both going to break before the silence does."

"Then you'll both need mending." Mary kissed him gently behind the ear and he kissed her back, careful not to hurt her bruised neck. He pulled back, looking at her with admiration, and then they stopped talking and proved to each other that touching and being touched was a fundamental human need.

* * *

John was ushered into a meeting room full of intelligence experts and members of a task force to hear the details of the plan to catch Moran.

Sherlock was there, too, sitting opposite him, not even acknowledging his presence when he entered. He looked exetremely pale in the cold neon light; to his surprise, John noticed a bruise under his left eye – the fading colour indicated that it had to be a few days old, and there was no swelling whatsoever. How had he missed this during their first encounter? Sherlock had kept his head turned away, he suddenly realised, and then he had been so distracted by the track marks on his arms that he had never noticed the bruised eye. Strange, it was clearly a haemorrhage, but not from a punch to the face.

Puzzled, John sat down. Soon, his thoughts returned to more urgent matters, but he vowed to catch Sherlock after the briefing and get a few answer out of him, and this time he would maintain control. Hopefully. For now, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand: catching Moran.

It turned out Sebastian Moran was an internationally wanted killer: a lot of people in a lot of countries were desperate to get their hands on him, mostly because he had been Moriarty's right-hand man, which meant he was privy to very sensitive information. The killing bit was certainly too mundane to get the CIA and the Russians interested, John mused wrily. Sitting in a chair facing a room full of people in unobtrusive suits, John scrutinized the unremarkable faces around him and hoped that none of the CIA guys had anything to do with Sherlock's abduction.

The man in question gave no indication of it: Sherlock sat with his legs crossed, looking decidedly bored. Wrapped in his coat and scarf, he stood out in every possible way; despite having been the one to track down Moran, he did not belong to the world of secret service and espionage. Mycroft, however, did, but even he looked much more the diplomat than the spy master – which was probably the best possible cover.

Mycroft was now explaining the situation to him as much as to various members of foreign secret service agencies or whatever they were. He turned to John, his blue eyes fixed on him, and John could not help but remember that Moriarty had nicknamed him the Ice Man. How apt.

"Moran wants revenge for having been fooled," Mycroft explained calmly, "and he wants to finish the job, but above all he wants to prove to the world that he is as capable as Moriarty – only then can he take over his position. Therefore, he intends to kill you, John, in front of everyone's eyes, preferably with Sherlock standing right next to you, proving he outsmarted the detective – a prince worth his dead king's crown. In short: he needs to show off."

John raised his brows, thinking of Moriarty wearing the Crown Jewels, styling himself King of Crime. Admittedly, he had looked the part.

"Your appearance in court to be a witness at the hearing on the accusations against Sherlock presents the perfect opportunity, John: the hearing at the Old Bailey will receive a lot of attention, containing the ultimate surprise with Sherlock coming back from the dead. This is the one moment when it will be difficult to protect you. After carefully gathering intelligence, we have been able to establish what Moran plans to do."

"Shoot me in front of the Old Bailey?" John quipped.

They all looked at him in surprise.

"Indeed," Mycroft drawled, a strange look on his face. He noticed that Sherlock's expression did not change, but his eyes were suddenly fixed on John.

"Well, hardly a difficult guess," John shrugged. "It's the place of Moriarty's trial, plenty of press will be there, the entrance is like a theatre stage – the perfect place, really."

Mycroft's mouth curled into a fine smile. "You are quite right, this is indeed what he plans. Only, there's a twist to it." Mycroft paused for a moment, then continued, "Moran may not be as brilliant as Moriarty, but he is no fool either. He has sat up a trap for us: a sniper – mind you, not Moran – will attempt to kill you after the hearing on your way out of the court."

"What makes you sure it's after the hearing?" John immediately interrupted. "Why not before?"

"Because during the hearing, Sherlock will make his appearance, revealing himself to the world and proving his innocence. Imagine how the press will react – when the hearing is over, they will be all over the place."

"Moran knows that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, that's the kind of attention he's looking for," John agreed.

Mycroft continued. "The sniper Moran set up resembles him physically, and the man believes he is hired to shoot you, but he has no idea that he is just a red herring. We know where he will hide, and we will neutralize him shortly before you leave the building, thus capturing the wrong man, supposedly believing it is Moran."

"How do you know all this?" John asked suspiciously.

"We know this, because Moran wants us to know it," Mycroft answered. "He has fed us this information very carefully and in a surprisingly subtle way – just not too subtle to be found out. I must say, I was impressed by his cunning."

"How can he feed you information?" John demanded sharply.

"I regret to say there is a mole in my team," Mycroft responded. "We discovered this a while ago and deemed it important to keep up the pretense. It proves useful now."

"How can you be sure it's not just another ruse?" John shot back.

Mycroft blinked and failed to answer for a moment – Sherlock, John noted, broke into the tiniest of smiles – was there pride in it? His heart suddenly beat a little quicker.

"As I said, Moran is not Moriarty, and we have been very thorough," Mycroft assured him.

John frowned. "Okay," he said slowly, "so you know there's a sniper and Moran wants you to know. Did I get this right: Moran's plan is that you catch the wrong sniper, thinking it's him, and while we let down our guard and everyone celebrates, Moran shoots me anyway?"

"Exactly." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Imagine the scene, John: you standing in front of the Old Baily, next to you Sherlock, just reappeared and magically alive, reporters tripping over themselves to get the best picture, and then you are shot right in front of them."

"Thanks for the vivid description." John smiled sweetly at Mycroft. "So, how do you make sure Moran doesn't get what he wants?"

"We'll find him in the meantime, of course." Mycroft smiled back just as sweetly. "We take down the wrong shooter and identify Moran's hiding place at the same time. There are only so many places from where you can shoot."

"Okay, and if you don't find him in time?"

"We won't let you out of the building unless we do. But of course you will be wearing a bulletproof vest, just in case."

John scoffed. "And much good that will do me. Moran's trademark is to shoot the victim in the head." All eyes turned to him and Mycroft straightened his back imperceptibly. John raised his brows in answer. "I've made my own enquiries, Mycroft. Moran served in Afghanistan – he has a reputation among army guys."

He caught the tiniest bit of movement from Sherlock – for the fraction of a second, his eyes sparkled, and he gazed at him with unsettling intensity, as if willing to communicate something – but then the moment was gone.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "You are quite right. As explained, we will take down Moran before you leave the building, but I admit there is always room for error – it is still dangerous."

"Well, that has never deterred me." John shrugged.

"We could use a body double-"

"No." John shook his head emphatically. "He's a sniper, remember? Bound to have a good peek at me through the scope." He smirked. "Anyway, why should some other bloke risk his life?"

Sherlock definitely smiled now, he noticed, and his heart leapt despite all the anger buried there.

Mycroft smirked, too. "We assumed you would argue that."

"You assumed right."

"Your wife won't be pleased," Mycroft added softly.

"… and very disappointed in me if I let somebody else take the risk. No, she knows me better than that."

Sherlock looked down at either his hands or his phone or whatever he was hiding under the table at the mentioning of Mary, he noticed, but again, the corner of his mouth twitched. Appreciation or mockery? John stared at him intently, but Sherlock's face was impassive again.

"I have one last question before I agree to this." John looked directly at Mycroft. "Who devised this plan?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched slightly and his eyes slid to his brother. "Sherlock did."

John stared challengingly at Sherlock, willing him to meet his gaze, but the younger Holmes did not look up. "So, Sherlock is the one who gathered the information and worked out this plan?"

"Yes, and it took quite some effort," Mycroft answered carefully.

"Well," John took a deep breath, "it certainly won't be boring." He looked around in fake enthusiasm. "Let's do it."

"Very well," Mycroft handed him a folder. "Here's all the information you need, John," he promised, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

"Right, I better read it then," John muttered, peeking inside and snapping the folder shut again. Looking around, he searched the room for Sherlock. He was determined to catch him – he knew he couldn't get Sherlock to talk, but he wanted to tell him that this was OK with him and that they would sort it out later … and yes, he wanted to apologize for his outburst about the track marks, although he had said he wouldn't.

Most people had risen and were talking agitatedly now, going over details and fishing for flaws, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he had used the brief moment of John being distracted to escape.

Upset, John looked at Mycroft, but he just shook his head imperceptibly.

His mouth suddenly tasted bitter with disappointment.


	10. Full Circle

**Author's note: We're back at the start now – this is the same time as the prologue. Sherlock and John are both at the Old Bailey to stage Sherlock's resurrection. **

**Thank you for reading so far - and I'm really happy that Mary has found a fan! Plus, I promise to keep my comments short in the future.**

**_To Howlynn:_ a million thanks for the in-depth-analysis, I'll definitely take time to reflect on it! Please don't get me wrong if I don't comment on it: I'm in the middle of my final exams and getting the story finished was like writing with the hounds of hell at my heels … and yes, I did change Mycroft a bit, assuming that the three years changed him as well - I had fun with that! But I'll do him justice later, I think he's brilliant :-)**

* * *

**Full Circle**

They had come full circle, Sherlock mused. Back to where it all began, at the Old Bailey, the place of Moriarty's trial, where the criminal mastermind had fooled them all.

He had arrived at the Old Bailey long before John. Mycroft had sent the car early, barely leaving him time to enjoy his tea and forcing him to skip breakfast. Not that he would have managed more than a slice of toast anyway, and even that would have upset his stomach.

Now, sitting in the antechamber of the courtroom, he was waiting for the hearing to begin. The room was a venerable, wood panelled chamber with leather armchairs, heavy tables, and monarchs staring down from the walls. It smelled of oak, dust and history. A tea trolley was in front of him, but he had not touched anything: his fingers were flying over the phone, spelling out the thoughts his voice failed to express.

* * *

_John,_

_I am proud of you. More than a little – I feel like a mother hearing her child say its first words! Laugh at me, if you want, it's sentiment, yes, and I know how ridiculous I sound, but it is true. _

_How coolly you handled Mycroft at the briefing, virtually interrogating him, keeping up with his line of thought, pouncing on all the flaws and weaknesses in the plan. And you trusted me despite what I have done to you and Mary – you go along with this dangerous plan because I devised it. _

_John, I am bursting with pride, and at the same time I'm so ashamed I want to crawl under a rock and die because I will betray you yet again. By the end of the day you will know what I mean. _

_I know I disappointed you because I hastened from the room before you could speak with me – I can't talk to you, John, not now. Well, in my defence I can say I did have a rather good excuse to rush out, which had something to do with a cucumber sandwich and a persistent food intolerance._

_But that's not really the problem._

_It's me. I'm choking on my words and I have no explanation for my silence. I have no time to analyse this problem, it will have to wait for later – if there is a later. _

_The truth is: I avoided you because I fear you. I was terrified that you would see through my lies; and once you have the slightest doubt, you don't let go, do you? You'd corner me and you'd want to know what's wrong and what they've done to me, and I would give in and break down, falling apart at your feet – and you'd be so strong and forgiving, and you'd offer your help and be practical and kind, all doctor and friend. _

_And then you'd worry even more lines into your face, and by the end of the day you would go home to your loving wife. And I would be broken._

_I am broken anyway._

_What I'm about to do is unforgivable. _

_I hope you forgive me anyway. _

_S_

* * *

Sherlock's ears picked up the sound of footsteps – someone treading softly by nature, yet confident, loathing haste. Today, however, there was a slight hesitation in the steps, heralding concern. Immediately, his own anxiety spiked, thankfully morphing into anger almost immediately. The door opened with a slight creak, but Sherlock did not acknowledge the intruder.

His brother slowly approached the heavy chair next to him and sat down, crossing his legs. Relaxing against the high back of the chair, he placed one hand on the armrest but kept twisting the handle of his umbrella between his delicate fingers: the perfect image of mildly bored self-composure. Sherlock knew better. The umbrella spoke volumes; there was no rain in London today.

Mycroft watched his brother typing furiously on his phone, his mind obviously far ahead of his fingers, for whenever Sherlock made an error – proof of his impatience – he hissed angrily, stabbing at the phone as if it were a venomous scorpion.

"You'll give yourself tendinitis if you continue like this," Mycroft said placidly.

"I don't care."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock–"

"Don't talk. You're distracting me." Another angry jab at the screen.

"Sherlock, don't you think this can wait-"

"I'm writing that bloody diary as you suggested and now shut up!"

Mycroft fell silent without further protest. Not for long. "You have to tell John."

Sherlock just snarled. "I can't."

"If you can't speak to John, why don't you give him your phone? You've obviously written a considerable amount already."

Sherlock shot his brother a murderous look without interrupting his typing. "It makes no sense without the other phone, which I had to hide, and which you failed to retrieve, brother dear!"

"I'm working on it," Mycroft assured him in a surprisingly soothing tone, as if promising to a child to have a beloved toy repaired. "It is only a matter of time."

Sherlock just hissed between his teeth.

"Anyway," Mycroft continued, lowering his voice, "I meant you have to tell him what you're planning to do. To him. Today."

"No."

"Why?"

"Too dangerous."

"Nonsense."

Sherlock stopped typing and looked up. For the first time Mycroft had his full attention. "He would not agree to it. He would never stay out of it. He would insist on remaining by my side."

Mycroft took a deep breath, knowing that he had lost the argument. "I could force him."

"No. He'd slip through your fingers again."

"Not this time."

Sherlock just snorted.

Mycroft wasn't willing to give up just yet. "Sherlock, don't you think you've hurt him enough? I'm afraid he will not forgive you this."

"I am aware of that."

"You are deliberately destroying everything you worked for."

"I have no choice."

"You do have a choice." Mycroft stopped spinning the umbrella and put it aside. "Look, I have only agreed to your plan because you promised me to accept help when this is over. Not all psychiatrists are _complete_ idiots. What is broken can still be mended. However, there is a point of no return; and you are approaching it – fast."

"I have long exceeded it." Sherlock rose and slipped the phone into his jacket. "And you still don't believe me, do you?"

Mycroft looked up at his younger brother, standing so tall and aloof. "I hope we are both wrong. For once."

Sherlock just scoffed.


	11. Resurrection

… **and a second one because it looks like I won't be able to publish tomorrow.**

**Resurrection**

John sat down and took in the bustle around him. So here he was, back in one of the court rooms of the Old Bailey, attending another hearing, waiting to be called as witness.

The press was there, of course, and he had even seen the face of Kitty Riley. She had done well for herself: gone was the girlish style, she now wore an elegant designer outfit and subtle make-up, giving her a professional look. The scoop with Sherlock's life story and the exposure of the great detective as a fraud had boosted her career phenomenally. John was surprised that she deigned to come at all. Others did the running and scribbling for her now, but she was probably just as curious as everybody else what the hearing, announced to present new and crucial evidence, would reveal.

A dead man it would reveal, John thought, and that you were all wrong. Faithless bastards.

Turning around, he saw familiar faces: Lestrade was in the audience, surrounded by Mycroft's bodyguards, and behind him Sally Donovan. They were both scowling, but probably for different reasons. The DI was fidgeting with his phone, looking tired and worn, his coat uncharacteristically rumpled, with crumbs on the lapel indicating a hasty meal on the way – probably just off a case or cramming the hearing into a badly needed break. He, too, had aged; his hair was now all silver, there were new lines edged into his face and he had put on a few pounds. His career had miraculously survived his involvement with Sherlock, and John had a strong notion that this was Mycroft's doing. Not that Lestrade looked happy about it.

Donovan watched the door through which the judge was supposed to enter impatiently and gave the impression of simply hating it all. Well, John mused, no one had forced her to come, but she obviously felt compelled to attend. She despised everything connected with Sherlock, yet could not quite close the case either and had probably come to dismantle the entire argumentation later, but also to watch over Lestrade – despite her prickly demeanour, she had a soft spot for her boss.

She noticed John looking at her and stared back defiantly. At least she was no coward, John admitted grudgingly, she had never pretended to be sorry about Sherlock's suicide. Well, she wouldn't regret having come, he smirked, for once feeling a little elated.

He also saw Molly Hooper, a tiny figure at the very back, and strangely, when his eyes met hers, she dropped her gaze instantly, frantically clawing through her bag, looking for nothing. 'So you knew,' John suddenly realised, and then it all fell into place. Of course, she was the only one who could have helped Sherlock at such short notice – organizing the body being whisked away, providing a corpse, producing a falsified autopsy report and death certificate. Sweet Molly, so inconspicuous even Moriarty had missed her significance. So had he. He suddenly felt as if he had been slapped in the face: Sherlock had trusted the overanxious pathologist, but not his only friend, the soldier with the nerves of steel. Granted, he thought, constantly belittled Molly Hooper had proven she was a tough cookie – sweet only on the outside. And it also explained why she hadn't spoken to him in all this time. Feeling guilty, huh?

He craned his neck but he did not see Mrs Hudson in the crowd, though he had a feeling that Mycroft had broken the news to her already, and gently, advising the old lady to avoid the hustle of the court room – she had grown very frail during those three years. 'I wonder who's fault that is,' John grumbled, but he had no time to continue mulling over his anger for the doors finally opened and everybody rose.

The hearing began.

After two hours of droning speeches and angry bickering in front of a stoic judge, John found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. That a resurrection could be so tedious … 'Sherlock will be bored out of his mind by now,' he thought, then imagined the detective with all his pent-up energy carving smileys into the oak panelling of the venerable antechamber, and he almost giggled.

He became serious instantly when the judge interrupted yet another monotonous monologue of a fellow wig-wearer.

"Surely, this must be an error, Mr Williamson." The judge squinted at the list of witnesses in front of him, his eyebrows raised so high they almost collided with the wig: he had discovered the name of a dead man. His brows came down again, staring at the offending name, then jumped up in sharp disapproval when Mr Williamson insisted that the list was indeed correct, and this was in fact the name of his witness.

The judge scowled. Mr Williamson cringed, and the doors opened.

'And here we go,' John thought and sat up, now wide awake.

The bailiff cleared his throat and announced, "Sherlock Holmes."

All heads turned.

John looked around: Molly's face lit up; Lestrade's chin dropped; Sally paled; Kitty Riley stared open-mouthed; the rest looked dumbstruck or confused. John turned and looked to the doors, his skin suddenly tingling.

And there he stood, tall and serene, the dead man resurrected, befittingly clad in a dark suit. Sherlock's eyes met John's; and for the first time he smiled. John felt a warm rush of joy at the sight of Sherlock looking like his old self again, and he had to cling to his seat to keep himself from running over to him.

He was not the only one having trouble to stay seated, it seemed: everything was thrown into turmoil, people gaping, shouting, babbling, reporters scrambling to get out and make hectic phone calls, and the judge nearly smashing his gavel in the effort to restore order. It took a long time until the hearing could proceed and John didn't really listen to all the tedious details, just drinking in the image of a living and breathing Sherlock showing the world the miracle he had worked. 'You brilliant bastard,' he thought fondly, and smiled until his face hurt.

In the end, he wasn't even called as witness: Sherlock provided all the evidence necessary. Too soon it was over and John found himself being escorted away by Mycroft's men. They ushered him into a side room and from then on, it was all a rush.

"Right, okay, so what now?" John asked, craning his neck in confusion and seeing nothing but strangers bearing down on him.

"All right, Sir, just a moment." A tall man in black spoke into a walkie-talkie. Two people were in front of him, one pulling off his jacket, the other loosening his tie; a tough looking woman slapped the bulletproof vest onto his upper body, the weight and bulk surprising him. Hands from all sides plucked and tugged at him, a grey-haired man was inexplicably kneeling in front of him and fiddling with whatever, someone threw his overcoat onto him, spinning him round, and John fleetingly wondered whether models felt like this before stepping out onto the catwalk – _he_ certainly felt more like three years old again, being dressed to play in the mud, his mother's warning not to ruin his good clothes under his dreadful fishing trousers still ringing in his ears.

"Sir, we're ready," the man with the walkie-talkie returned, looking him up and down. Two police officers appeared in the doorway, and the man kneeling at his feet gave a thumbs up.

"Um," John looked around in confusion. "Anybody care to tell me what's next?" He couldn't discover a single familiar face.

"We leave the building, Sir," the man said and pointed towards the two waiting police officers. "We're just waiting for the final OK."

"Right." John straightened, clenching his hands involuntarily. "And then?"

No one answered – suddenly there was a tense silence; then the cracking of the walkie-talkie. The man turned around, speaking hastily into it. "OK! They've got him." He signalled to the two policemen and John found himself being marched out of the room. "They got him? Both? Moran and the other one? They've got the snipers?" John was pushed forward to keep up.

"Yes, Sir, the danger has been neutralized. There's a lot of press out there. This way, Sir, if you please."

"Yeah, right, but … I don't feel quite ready to face the press, without any prep talk, I mean …" John trailed off, stumbling along and plucking in confusion at a cable coming out of the bulletproof vest – what was this for and why was the thing so voluminous? He tried to pull the zipper down, but a hand reached over his shoulder from behind, stilling his fingers. "Please don't, Sir!"

"Uh, sorry." Confused, John said, " Excuse me," turning to the walkie-talkie man. "What sort of a vest is this? I mean, normally they're not quite this bulky, I kind of look pregnant in this thing …"

"It's a custom-built model, Sir. This way, please."

John's eyebrows jerked up and down in confusion. He had worn his fair share of bulletproof vests and armour as a soldier, but never anything as strange as this, and something was definitely wrong with it. What worried him more, however, was the fact that he did not know any of the people around him, and unpleasant memories of a similar situation popped up in his mind, ending with him wrapped in Semtex beside a pool. He was about to stop dead in his tracks, intending to remain rooted to the stop until he got to the bottom of the matter, but before he could protest, they rounded the corner, and there was Sherlock, waiting for him.

It was was all right, then.

His heart skipped a beat – finally, his friend looked familiar, like the Sherlock he remembered: dark coat, blue scarf, a detached half-smile playing around his lips, his hands folded behind his back. But when he tried to make eye contact, the detective looked away, addressing the man standing next to him.

John didn't know how, but suddenly they were underneath the imposing entrance arch of the Old Bailey, standing shoulder to shoulder without having spoken a single word to each other, facing a legion of reporters.

The throng in front of them was unbelievable and if the police had not cordoned them off, the journalists would have trampled them down. It was confusing enough as it was: a frenzy of flashing cameras and people yelling questions.

"Boffin Holmes and Bachelor Watson – are you back?"

"Was Moriarty real?"

"How did you fake your death?"

"Will you work together again?"

"What about your relationship?"

"Are you friends or lovers?"

"Mr Holmes, where have you been all this time?"

"Dr Watson, did you know the suicide was faked?"

"If not – have you forgiven Holmes?"

"Are you still friends?"

'Are we still friends?' John wondered and desperately tried to relax his posture, a strained smile plastered to his face. He glanced at Sherlock: he was looking straight ahead, but his eyes were not on the journalists; they seemed to be fixed on a spot on the opposite building. Strange, really –

Two shots. Earsplitting noise, a punch that knocked the breath out of him, sending him into a shrill panic, body and mind reeling.

Two shots. And he was hit.


	12. Delusion

**Author's note: Dear Lena, I'd be delighted and very honoured if you translated my story into Italian! **

**Delusion**

A sledgehammer cannoned into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs and throwing him on his back. His head struck concrete with a skull splitting crack, numbing his senses. With his mind reeling from the shock of the impact, he belatedly realized he had been shot, and the horror of it ran through him like an electric current.

Something had gone wrong. But they had said Moran had been caught? Oh my God, the bastard had fooled them. And what about –

He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision, staring up at dozens of faces blocking out the light, hands reaching down, fussing over him, the face of the walkie-talkie man coming into sight, his mouth forming words, but he could not hear him, the ringing in his head was drowning out everything else – well, the idiot looked pretty horrified now, served him right. You fools, you got it wrong …

God, he couldn't breathe, his chest really hurt – the vest may have stopped the bullet but he would still be all black and blue with bruising, maybe broken ribs – and where was Sherlock, why did he not see him?

Suddenly, fear washed over him: two shots. He had heard two shots, and Sherlock had not worn any protection – for God's sake, where was he? Sherlock!

He tried to sit up but his arms just flailed – he could hear himself yelling his friend's name and strangers' voices trying to hush him, cooing, "stay calm,", "don't move,", "it's okay, help's on the way, it's gonna be alright". He was struggling to get up, and the hands kept pushing him down, so he fought them, clawing at arms and shoulders – and suddenly he realized his own hands were red. He lifted his head, staring dumbly at the crimson smudges.

Blood. Blood all over his chest. Oh my God …

The walkie-talkie man abruptly withdrew, ushering people in yellow reflective jackets forward, paramedics, thank you, and someone was putting an oxygen mask over his face, but it smelled wrong, this was not –

He felt himself fade; and just before his eyelids drooped, he saw Sherlock standing there, looking down on him, his face set in stone, eyes sad.

'He's alive, thank God,' John thought, and then the darkness closed in.

* * *

The doors of the ambulance were slammed shut and the vehicle sped off, escorted by police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Mycroft watched his brother, sitting across from the unconscious man on the stretcher, his face impassive.

Without taking his eyes off the motionless body, the detective asked, "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"I am a friend of the victim," the elder Holmes answered smoothly. "It would be natural for me to accompany him – and my distressed brother," he added poignantly.

"Nonsense," Sherlock spat.

Mycroft sighed. "I will hardly have another chance to speak with you – I know, you will make sure the reporters get their pictures of the critically injured Dr Watson being rushed to A&E with you by his side, but you'll dash off long before he wakes. Leaving me to do the explaining."

"Sorry about that." It sounded more like a sneer.

Mycroft bit back a cutting remark. "I am the last person he wants to see when he wakes up, Sherlock."

"Get his wife, then."

"I will." Mycroft raised his brows. "And what do you expect me to tell her?"

"The truth, of course."

Mycroft gave his brother an exasperated look. Turning to the paramedic monitoring the patient's vitals, he asked, "How is he doing?"

The paramedic took off the stethoscope and covered the unconscious man with a blanket. "He's doing fine apart from a possible rib fracture, we'll have to wait for the X-rays. Probably just bruised ribs, though."

"He hit his head when he fell," Sherlock interjected sharply.

"We'll keep an eye on it," the paramedic reassured, "but so far there are no signs of a concussion. Vitals are good and the anaesthesia should wear off soon enough."

"Very well, then," Mycroft gave a tight smile. He turned back to Sherlock, holding his gaze for a full minute without speaking a word. Then he said in a low voice, "He won't forgive you this, brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Probably not. Though I've misused and tricked him before, he shouldn't expect anything better from me."

Mycroft's mouth twitched. "You've never shot him."

"I didn't shoot him, technically."

"No, but he did believe it when he saw the blood."

"Which was the whole point of the prop with the explosives. If he believed it, so will the rest of the world."

"Undoubtedly. Yet, it neither lessens the risk nor the trauma." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother.

"Well," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "he's been shot before, it shouldn't be too alien a feeling. Anyway, it was necessary." He took out his phone and started typing.

Mycroft frowned disapprovingly. "You take this too lightly."

In a sudden fit of rage, Sherlock slammed the phone down on his knee. "No, I do not take this lightly, Mycroft! _I do not_, do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," his brother retorted unfazed.

Sherlock huffed. "Anyway, much will depend on how you break the news to him."

"Tell him yourself," Mycroft calmly insisted. "You do know that he desires your presence much more than any explanation."

"Not important."

"Sherlock," Mycroft leaned forward, frowning. "He'll forgive you almost anything. But not this silence." When Sherlock did not react, he snapped angrily, "For God's sake, he's forgiven you making him watch your suicide! Talk to him!"

"I can't." Sherlock pressed his lips together.

"You can't or you won't?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Both." Sherlock went back to typing, but his pinched mouth suggested that his mind was not focused on it.

Mycroft gave a deep sigh, leaning back. "Accepted. But you should have displayed some sort of emotion in front of him – you know how important this is to them."

"I have none. Therefore, I can't show any."

"Then bloody well act it!" Mycroft exploded, his face flushed with anger.

Surprised, Sherlock looked up, his fingers hovering over the phone. For a split second, his eyes were wide and anxious, but his face instantly turned to stone again. "You? Sentiment?" he drawled, sneering at Mycroft. "Brother, dear … who would have thought that?"

They stared at each other for a long time, and Mycroft did not miss the spasms in Sherlock's hand, betraying extreme anger underneath the cold mask.

Finally, the elder Holmes straightened, looking down his nose at his brother. "Well."

The next minutes passed with neither of them saying anything, the heavy silence between them strangely emphasized by the sirens and the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. Finally, the ambulance slowed down: they had arrived at the hospital.

Sherlock slipped the phone back into his pocket and glanced at Mycroft. "I trust you to impersonate the heartbroken friend at the press conference when you inform the public that sadly, Dr Watson succumbed to his severe injuries." Scoffing, he added, "You will undoubtedly act the part much better than I would. See it as an exercise for your political career, Mycroft – feigning sorrow is vital."

The elder Holmes gave him a dark look. "I don't have to feign it."

The press was already there, Mycroft had made sure of that. They put on a proper show: when the doors of the ambulance flew open, the stretcher was instantly surrounded by a medical team making the required fuss. With dozens of cameras flashing, Sherlock jogged alongside the stretcher, holding John's hand, shock and concern duly written all over him, while the older brother trailed behind, a look of startled dismay on his face.

Inside the building, Mycroft immediately turned to his PA, ignoring the stretcher being wheeled away. Sherlock followed the medical crew for a while; and suddenly, he realized he hadn't just acted the feelings of fear and horror for the cameras – they were real, as was the unsettling thought that this might be the last he'd ever see of John. And what was the last image of Sherlock John would have in his mind? A stoney-faced psychopath refusing to touch him despite the bleeding man yelling his name.

God, he actually had to swallow tears – but still, it was better John hated him in case he didn't survive this day.

Though John would never hate him, he knew that deep down inside, no matter what he did; John would just be confused and hurt. Maybe he should make more of an effort to sort out this mess … but then again, John had Mary. Sherlock relied on her. Absolutely.

He paced the corridor, lost in thought, waiting for news from his homeless network, until he noticed that people were staring at him. Two anxious old women, one waiting for the results of some examination, the other – her sister – to comfort her in case the news was bad … she would have to comfort her, he realized, the woman had death written all over her sallow skin.

Suddenly, their worries seemed to fill the air, suffocating him, disturbing his own burdened mind so much that he wanted to shout, 'Accept the inevitable and stop whining! You're old! You've had a life!' Instead, he just fled the place with John's voice in his head, quietly urging _Sherlock, _in this particular intonation that meant _I understand your reaction, but they don't – so stop it._

John.

John.

John, I'm probably not going to see you again.

John, I'm sorry.

There was a garden, half-dead at this time of the year, offering some sort of sanctuary, but he hated it as soon as he stepped into it: the wet smell of rotting plants; frail old people crawling around at a snail's pace, a grossly overweight man in a wheelchair, angry at the world, and on every bench some moping, sickly person – suede slippers and striped dressing gowns and hospital smells; worse, over there a dreadfully happy family with a newborn, cooing all over the red bundle … he would have scoffed _tedious,_ but in reality he found it just overwhelming.

Struggling to concentrate, he chose a tree to lean against, facing away from them. Then he took out his phone and continued where Mycroft had distracted him.

* * *

_John,_

_In the ambulance Mycroft scolded me for the way I treated you. In that, he is right. _

_But he misses the point. He did accept the fact that I cannot talk to you now – and, rightly, pointed out how important it is to show some emotion and not just offer this cold exterior. _

_To be accessible._

_Yet, I can't. Mycroft understood; but he told me to act it, then. _

_To pretend. To fool you._

_He saw my anger despite my display of coldness; he knows how close he came to end up on that stretcher instead of you, only more severely injured. He does not understand why there is a difference between faking a sniper attack and faking emotions. Both are lies. Both come easily. _

_I can act the heartbroken friend for the press if I have to; as you've seen, I can even pretend to be myself in front of a judge at the Old Bailey. _

_But I cannot and never will pretend in front of you ever again. Not after the rooftop._

_This is the last chance I have to fulfill the promise I made. I said I would tell you what happened. So I will. I will spell it out for you. Then I shall give the phone to Mycroft. He is not to hand it over to you before he has retrieved my old phone, the one I lost in Russia. One does not make sense without the other. _

_Giving the phone away also means cutting loose ties – without it, Mycroft cannot track me, and I am finally on my own._

_But enough of the future, back to the past._

_Repeatedly, I tried to describe what happened to me, but failed spectacularly every single time. I deleted all the attempts._

_The main problem is that my memories are severely damaged. This is why I need my old phone - I kept a diary on it. When you read this message, you probably know about the phone and my need to reconstruct my memories. _

_I once described my mind palace to you, do you remember? _

_It's burnt down, John. A firestorm raged through it. I don't even have a timeline, just moments of consciousness between nightmares, all blurring into an indistinguishable mess of memory fragments. It is not the drugs that caused this; it was something much worse than cocaine or conventional torture. They tried ttt _

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He instantly suppressed the urge to lash out and attack. "Don't do that, Mycroft," he hissed. "I could have killed you!"

"Hardly," his brother replied. "You were so distracted that any knife-wielding lunatic could have sneaked up to you. A word with you, please."

"Again?" Sherlock bridled.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded at the building and started walking towards it. Slipping the phone into his pocket, Sherlock huffed a sigh, then followed his brother into the hospital.

Mycroft led him to an empty waiting room; a sickly Benjamin's fig dropped a few leaves when he closed the door. Sherlock stopped in front of the window, his back to Mycroft.

"Sherlock. Please look at me."

No answer.

"Sherlock."

"If I hear that concerned tone of voice one more time, I'll throw myself off the building."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "With you, that's to be taken seriously."

Sherlock turned around, his hands hidden in the pockets of his coat. "You don't believe me. You just don't believe me," he said in a soft voice.

"I do believe you," Mycroft said wearily, briefly rubbing his eyes. "I believe you are perfectly serious, and I see the logic of your line of thought. I also believe you follow a self-destructive path for no sensible reason."

Sherlock went utterly still, watching his brother intently. "You think I'm delusional," he stated in sudden realization. "You don't just think I may be _wrong_, you think I'm going insane. You believe the torture has broken me, that the drugs induced continued paranoia." He narrowed his eyes, scanning his brother for a reaction. Mycroft hesitated – which said more than words.

Sherlock rushed forward, his voice suddenly pleading and his face animated. "Mycroft, if I can fake my death, so can he. He had ample time to prepare everything, I had mere hours and still pulled it off. Pretending to blow out one's brain is not an easy feat, granted – you need explosives, you have to provide the blood and gore, and timing is absolutely crucial, but come to think of it – it is a lot easier than falling from the roof of St. Bart's and still be walking." He paused. "John and I are both living proof of that."

Mycroft shook his head. "Faking a bullet through the head is much more difficult than pretending to be shot in the chest."

"But not impossible."

Mycroft nodded gravely, choosing his words carefully. "Not impossible, agreed. But Moriarty did kill himself on the day you jumped, Sherlock. It was definitely him, I was thorough–"

"Oh, were you?" Sherlock snarled, stepping back. "Did you do the legwork yourself this time? Did you, Mycroft? DNA samples can be faked, records forged, people bribed or blackmailed – did you view his corpse? With your own eyes? Did you take the liver temperature? Make sure it's him, and make sure he's dead?" Sherlock stared at him challengingly. "I can think of at least two drugs that would make him pass for dead easily enough and that's not even taking into account much simpler methods such as bribing or threatening people on your team and planting a mole."

Mycroft remained silent, regarding his brother with sad patience.

"Did you see him with your own eyes, Mycroft?" Sherlock pressed on. "Did you view the corpse?"

"Sherlock, no, but I made _absolutely_ certain–"

"Not certain enough," Sherlock moved a step back, folding his hands behind his back. "No. He's alive."

"Sherlock, please listen," Mycroft pleaded in a gentle tone, one that he hadn't used since Sherlock was ten years old. "You value logic and reason above all, please consider – just _consider_ for a moment my point of view; consider that it is _more likely_ that Moriarty is dead and that your obsession with him is – unsurprisingly – the result of a severe posttraumatic stress disorder."

Sherlock stared at him – and suddenly broke into a grin. "You're right."

Mycroft drew back, watching his brother warily.

"You're right," Sherlock repeated, his face a grimace. "I'm obsessed with Moriarty and I suffer from PTSD. I won't deny that. But he is alive."

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, then tried again. "You have no proof that he is alive. You have destroyed significant parts of his network and there was never any indication that someone was still governing this network – if Moriarty were indeed alive, he would try to stop you, would he not?"

"That's part of his plan." The answer came so fast, it was premeditated.

Mycroft blinked and opened his mouth, then said nothing for a long time. "What about Moran?" he probed. "The interrogation has shown that he is utterly convinced that Moriarty killed himself of the roof of St. Bart's."

"He was fooled, too. And don't bother, he won't crack under torture."

"Moriarty would not give up his right-hand man, Sherlock."

"Why not? He has a self-destructive streak, like me," he sneered.

Mycroft did not rise to the bait.

Sherlock sighed and looked to the ceiling. "Oh dear, this is me proclaiming there is an invisible man in the garden, and no one can prove me wrong, for he is invisible." He smirked.

When he turned back to his brother, his face was serious again, eyes wide and clear. "Moriarty is alive, Mycroft," he said softly. "That you don't believe me only proves how clever he is – he is fooling even you, brother, and that is his sweetest triumph. It completes my fall, don't you see?"

He slowly walked towards Mycroft, his eyes glittering. "When I have lost everyone who loves me, then he has truly burnt the heart out of me. And he doesn't need to kill my friends, oh no, killing is much too quick for him to enjoy, he prefers a slow and agonizing death – he wants me to watch as everyone loses faith in me. First, the public, then my friends, and finally, I myself." He smiled, a spark of his old energy returning. "Oh, he is patient, Mycroft, and his scheme is more intricate than any of you can see – he's tricking my friends into believing that I have lost my mind, and, oh doesn't he make it plausible? Torture causing post-traumatic stress disorder, the drug-induced psychosis, the flashbacks and meltdowns – the fragile mind of a genius breaking under the strain, my naturally obsessive personality focusing on the cause of all of this: Moriarty." He let out a long breath. "It's a battle of minds, brother. Between you, me, and him."

Mycroft just stood, his face inscrutable.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "You do know what Moriarty's ultimate triumph would be, don't you?" He looked at his brother questioningly. "No? Come on, Mycroft." He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on his brother's. "It's obvious, isn't it? I, ending up sectioned, drugged out of my mind in a psychiatric hospital." Smiling bitterly, he stepped back. "I'm not very far away from it if you have your way."

"Sherlock–"

"Don't bother." Without another look, he brushed past his brother and walked out of the room.

Mycroft felt as if someone had just stuck a knife in his chest.


	13. Invisible Man

**Again, thank you for your wonderful reviews!**

**Stirrings**

Mary. Of all people, he had to run into _bloody Mary_.

Sherlock knew how unfair it was to nickname her after an infamous queen, but given her regal gait and strength of mind, it just fit.

And as persistent as any queen she was, standing in the middle of the corridor, blocking his path. This was no accident – she had tracked him down, and there was no way to avoid her short of a scuffle. He couldn't risk that, last time had ended badly. The Indian silk shawl draped around her throat and shoulders was proof of that, hiding the bruises his hands had left on her skin.

"You're a hard man to catch, Mr Holmes," she said with raised eyebrows, her voice still barely above a whisper. "I've tried to contact you several times, but all I get is silence."

He forced his face into a noncommittal smile. "Well, we're all busy these days." He tried to brush past her, but she simply planted herself in front of him.

"Don't give me that." She was clearly unfazed.

Sherlock looked at her askance. "Give you what?"

"That fake smile."

"You shouldn't be talking yet, too much strain for your voice," he quipped, and meant it.

"I couldn't care less," she drawled, letting her eyes roam all over him, surprisingly similar to his own deductive stare.

He straightened imperceptibly. "What do you want?"

She gave him a long look, assessing him, he realized, and making no secret of it. Dear me, he thought, I wonder whether John's ever the object of this cold gaze too or was she all sweet with him?

"I'm a university teacher, Mr Holmes," she smirked. "You learn to face down people. Doesn't mean I'm a cold person."

For once, he didn't know what to say – so he just shrugged.

"I know it takes more to impress you," she said with a slight smile. "But I don't mean to anyway."

He tried aggressive. "Then what do you want? Are you here to berate me for almost killing you?"

"What would be the point?" She sounded genuinely surprised.

"None."

"Right." She folded her arms, giving him another long look, her eyes a bit softer this time. Finally, she relaxed her stance. "I know you hate to be kept waiting so I'll be brief. I want you to know two things."

"And those are?" he asked in a fake-friendly tone.

She rolled her eyes. "First: I'm not your enemy. Second: I love John for the same reasons as you do, so we have the same priorities. John will only be truly happy when his friendship with you is mended. He needs you as much as you need him, and don't try to protest, that's stupid."

He shut his mouth, noticing to his own surprise that he was not annoyed, but rather taken aback.

"It's plain logic and simple selfishness on my side," she moved a step forward, looking him directly in the eyes. "I'm happy when John is happy; John's happy when his world is in order, and that world firmly revolves around me – and you."

He blinked. "Good. Fine. So what?"

"So you don't run off and get yourself killed," she snapped, and it sounded like a menace.

"Who says I do?" He tried to make it sound light.

"It's written all over you," she drawled. "I may not have your deductive skills, Mr Holmes, nor your brilliant logic, but I'm good at reading emotions. You can fool everyone, even your horribly perceptive brother, but you can't fool me. I know a walking suicide when I see it. Takes one to know one."

"Oh." He wanted to sound amused but to his annoyance, it came out dismayed instead.

"You know you can't put John through this again," she said, and suddenly, stepping closer, she snarled, "and don't you rely on me to comfort him in his misery!"

He barely managed to stop himself from flinching in surprise – she had worked it out. _Bloody Mary _all right …

She stepped back again, her voice perfectly non-committal. "Your brother has explained to me why you felt it necessary to fake John's death. I understand, and I agree with your plan, even if your brother seems to think you're delusional."

He baulked at the revelation. Mycroft had told her he thought him delusional?

At his look of indignant surprise, she added, "No, Mr Holmes did not mention anything like that to me – as I said, I'm good at reading emotions, and as much as he tried to make you seem rational, he clearly believes you are about to lose your mind. Since I neither know you nor your brother, it's hard to decide which one of you is wrong, and whether Moriarty is dead or alive. But as long as there is the slightest chance that this lunatic is still around, I want the best possible protection for John, and I will play the broken-hearted widow with fervour. Shouldn't come too hard." Her phone buzzed. She looked at it and muttered, "He's waking up, I better be going."

Feeling slightly stunned, Sherlock was about to turn away when her hand reached out – he tensed but she stopped herself abruptly before touching his elbow. "Sorry," she muttered. "I almost forgot. You don't like to be touched." With a crooked smile, she added, "By the way, I've poured a bottle of perfume worth several hundred pounds down the toilet because of you. Just so that you know."

Sherlock looked at her sharply. "Mycroft told you about the perfume."

She almost said _obviously, _but stopped herself in time, settling for a simple "Yes."

"I told him this in confidence," he growled.

"And he thought it's important that I know," she retorted.

"What else do you know?" he asked calmly, but she certainly sensed the underlying threat in it.

"Nothing beyond that," she said truthfully, "but I have a vivid imagination, Mr Holmes. I know what causes PTSD."

"Undoubtedly." It was said in a flat tone, but the anger he had felt moments ago was gone.

"Just one more thing, Mr Holmes." She gave him another long look, but this time her eyes were soft and warm, and he suddenly understood why John had fallen for her instantly. "A bit of advice. From my own experience, for what it's worth." She gave him a lopsided smile, waiting for him to either listen or dismiss her.

He just stood, watching her, vigilant like a big cat.

Mary closed her eyes briefly. "You don't have to carry this burden alone, Mr Holmes. That's what friends are for." With that, she stepped aside to let him pass.

He was careful not to betray any emotions as he walked past her. But suddenly, he stopped, and to his own surprise, he said in his deep, warm voice, "Please, call me Sherlock."

"Will do." Her face lit up in a radiant smile, and as Sherlock walked away, he felt her gaze on him, sending a tingling sensation down his spine.

He kept his step light and his back straight.

* * *

John wanted to shoot the camel. Those foul-tempered ships of the Afghan desert were nothing but trouble, biting, bucking, and kicking, and by the way his chest felt, one of the bastards had decided to sit on him. Ah, no, he remembered being thrown backwards, so the beast had lashed out, hitting him squarely in the chest.

He wondered whether roast camel really tasted as bad as they said – maybe he should find out.

Then his hearing came back and he instantly knew he was not in Afghanistan. This was a quiet room, faint traffic noise from the street, the smell of disinfectant. Someone was holding his hand, rubbing a thumb soothingly over his knuckles.

And then the memory hit him as hard as a camel's foot.

His eyes flew open, and gasping for air, he tried to jump up. Everything was a blur, and this was not a very intelligent reaction given that he had been shot, his doctor's mind reproached him, and sure as hell, his body was aching all over. The soothing hand was now tugging urgently at his arm, and someone was pressing him back down on the bed.

"John, calm down, it's all right."

Mary. Sensible and comforting. Her hand lightly squeezing his shoulder.

John blinked and willed the fog clouding his vision to go away. Finally, Mary's face came into view. She looked down on him and smiled, looking – what, sad? Sad, definitely. Not horrified or anxious, and she hadn't been crying. Suddenly the memories came rushing back at him, the journalists, the noise, the shots – him falling, and blood and Sherlock –

"Oh my God!" He jerked up again, staring down at his own body. A hospital blanket, dull green; no IV-lines, no bandages, and he was wearing his own clothes. Yet, his mouth tasted as if he had chewed a mouldy piece of bread – definitely anaesthesia, then. What for, if he wasn't really injured?

"You're okay, John, apart from a bump on your head and some bruised ribs," Mary soothed him.

Mycroft's smooth voice sounded from the corner of the room. "Everything went according to plan, John."

"Plan?" John blinked. "What plan? What the hell is going on?" he barked, barely suppressed anger threatening to break through any moment. He looked from Mary to Mycroft. "And where is Sherlock, that lying bastard? He did this, didn't he?"

Mycroft walked over to his bedside and sat down on a chair. "Sherlock insisted on this course of action."

John stared at Mycroft defiantly. "Why?"

"To protect you," Mary said appeasingly, eliciting a surprised look from Mycroft, who had been about to reply.

"Protect me. Again," John snorted. "Nearly scaring me to death seems to be a hobby of his. And how come you know all about it?" He looked at Mary, a deep frown on his face.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, I didn't know anything until it was over. By the way, I got hold of Sherlock a few moments ago – finally."

"And he's still alive and in one piece?" John quipped.

Mary smiled pleasantly. "Certainly."

"So, how did it go, that first chat between my wife and my best friend? Cups and saucers flying?"

"No green-eyed monsters pacing and no dishes smashed," she answered smoothly.

"Green-eyed monsters?" John looked at her in confusion, noticing Mycroft rolling his eyes.

"Jealousy. Shakespeare." Mary winked at him.

John squirmed. "Um. Never been one for literature. So, how did you two get along?" He looked at her anxiously.

"Fine," Mary said. "After a bit of chiding, he seemed to warm to me. We've reached some sort of unspoken understanding."

"Oh-kay," John looked bemused. "And why exactly did he feel the need to shoot me?"

Mycroft opened his mouth, but Mary interrupted, "Technically, he didn't shoot you, John, the vest was rigged with explosives and fake blood. Still dangerous, admittedly, but it was necessary. You're dead, by the way."

Mycroft blinked and frowned. John did the same. "You know Mary, sometimes I wonder what my life will be like with two Sherlocks in it."

"Better, of course," she answered smiling sweetly, "I come in where he's lacking."

"And what's that?"

"You have fabulous sex with me."

John laughed out loud, flinching in pain instantly; Mycroft hurriedly closed his mouth, realizing it had been hanging open.

John was abruptly serious again. "Why this ruse? And did you get Moran? Or was that faked, too?"

"Moran is very real indeed," Mycroft slipped back into his customary coolness effortlessly. "And we apprehended him, yes. He's being interrogated by my people now, and there's a queue of other interested parties waiting for their chance to have a word with him."

"So, back to my first question, then," John looked at him stony-face. "What is this all about?"

For a moment, neither spoke. John's gaze moved from Mycroft to Mary and back, getting the eerie feeling that these two had a silent agreement how to play him.

In the end it was Mary who said, "Sherlock believes Moriarty is alive. He has come to lure him out and finish him once and for all."

John gaped, then groaned and let his head fall back into the pillows. "So he's shutting me out again." He gave Mycroft a withering look. "And you went along with it. You should know better, Mycroft! Without me, he's even more reckless!"

"I am aware of that John, but there was no negotiating with him unless he was absolutely certain of your safety. It was the price for his cooperation, otherwise he would not agree on accepting help for his mental problems."

"Oh God," John groaned. "Of course. So what are going to do? Lock me away as dead?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. John scoffed. "You can't be serious, Mycroft – and you can't let Sherlock run around on his own. Not with Moriarty out there."

Mycroft stiffened visibly. "You believe him."

"What?" John looked at him in confusion. "You don't?"

"No," he said softly. "I am certain that Moriarty is dead."

"Then why does Sherlock believe he's alive?" John sounded practical, but a deep frown appeared on his forehead.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "John, Sherlock–" he hesitated and seemed to rephrase his explanation – a first in Mycroft's case, John noted with satisfaction.

Mycroft continued, "Sherlock has undergone a dramatic personality change during the _hiatus_, as he calls this period of his absence. He was alone most of the time, as far as I know, and his work required … certain actions that have disturbed him deeply. My brother has always had a fragile mind, John, not to mention his history of addiction. Some of the experiences of the past three years left him, how can I say – mentally unstable."

John snorted. "Yes, thank you, Mycroft, you've told me before. I'm not that dumb that I need constant repeating. So, he has killed and he was tortured, I know what PTSD looks like. No need to beat about the bush. But why the hell do you think he's gone _crazy_?"

Mycroft blinked, momentarily too stunned to reply. "Well, John, you make it sound …"

"… a lot less dramatic, yes." John raised his brows. "I'm neither downplaying nor underestimating what happened to Sherlock, Mycroft, even without knowing what _exactly_ happened – but you obviously think he's delusional and obsessed, and I don't see the link there. Being traumatized does not necessarily entail insanity – thank God. The world would be teeming with maniacs."

Mycroft quickly regained his composure. "Sherlock believes Moriarty is alive, but Moriarty is definitely dead."

"Then why is Sherlock convinced he's alive?"

"That is the point, doctor. He has no reason to believe it."

"He must have."

"Your faith in him is … endearing."

They looked at each other for a long time. Then John suddenly burst out, "Oh God, you haven't even asked him, have you? How exactly he got the idea that Moriarty is alive? You didn't even listen."

Mycroft took his time to answer. "Sherlock's reasoning is that Moriarty has planned it all out to this point, faking his death on the top of St. Bart's, allowing Sherlock to hunt down the snipers and destroy large parts of his network, even selling him to the Americans to capture and torture him."

"Sounds a bit far fetched." John flinched. "So, Moriarty never believed Sherlock killed himself?"

"According to Sherlock, he did, but realized soon enough that he was in fact alive. Moriarty then decided to start a new game."

"Including Sherlock's return?"

"All planned with the ultimate goal to make Sherlock seem delusional, resulting in everyone losing faith in him."

John pursed his lips. "And ending in him breaking down and losing his mind. Makes sense – sort of." John looked at Mycroft. "What did you say to him?"

Mycroft frowned, then replied in a low voice, "John, there is no way to prove or disprove Sherlock's reasoning. He himself called it _the invisible man in the garden._"

John looked away and considered the situation. When he turned back to them, he looked at Mary first. "What do you make of it? What impression did you have of Sherlock?"

Mary frowned and thought about it. "I don't know him, John. I have no way of comparing the Sherlock I met with the friend you know. He's certainly obsessed." She thought about it a bit longer, than shook her head.

"What's your gut feeling, Mary? Do you think Sherlock's delusional?" John asked, trust written in his face.

She smiled, looking apologetically at Mycroft. "Reasoning is on your side, Mr Holmes, definitely. But no, I do not think Sherlock's delusional. He may be _wrong_, but not mad."

"He tried to strangle you, Mrs Watson," Mycroft replied mildly.

"Well, yes," Mary rolled her eyes. "We started off on the wrong foot, but the circumstances were rather unusual. And I did threaten him with a gun." She smirked.

"Okay," John interjected, "but what's your plan, Mycroft?"

Mycroft drew a deep breath. "First of all, we will make your death public," he nodded at Mary, "Your wife will attend the press conference, convincing the world of your demise, in–" he looked at his pocket watch, "one hour." He gave a tight-lipped smile. "Then I will make Sherlock realize that Moriarty is indeed dead."

"How?" John raised his brows.

"By proving him wrong," Mycroft stated flatly. "Sherlock has arranged a situation which he believes will result in Moriarty revealing himself. I agreed to the plan, though the outcome will of course be that no such revelation takes place. The invisible man remains invisible."

"And what do I do in the meantime?"

"You and Mary will both be taken to a safe place. And before you ask: I do not want you to know any more details, just in case you feel obliged to interfere."

Mary reached out and caught John's hand, squeezing it placatingly. John quenched his anger and finally bit out between clenched teeth, "Mycroft, have you at all considered – I mean, just _considered_ – that Sherlock might be right? You do have a contingency plan, don't you?"

Mycroft looked troubled for a split second. "John, Moriarty is definitely dead. We had his corpse on a slab. And the contingency plan is to arrest Moriarty should he appear. Which he will not."

"Hm." John shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first faked death."

"We made absolutely sure, John."

"I'm sure you did Mycroft. But there's something else bugging me."

Mycroft raised his brows in question.

"Moran."

"What about him?"

"I told you I made my own enquiries. You said Moran wanted to take Moriarty's place."

Mycroft tilted his head to one side.

"No way," John simply said. "He's a sniper, not a schemer. Granted, he wanted to finish the job, and he held the rank of a colonel before he left the army, so he knows how to command people and run difficult operations – but Moriarty's business? That's not his cup of tea. Someone else set up this sham with the mole in your team, the red herring sniper, and Moran as bait."

"I think you underestimate the colonel, John. And he would not be the first man who's ambition exceeds his abilities. It is very common indeed," Mycroft sneered. Sighing, he added, "John, do you seriously believe Moriarty is alive, after three years and not a single piece of evidence indicating it?"

John pouted his lips. "To be absolutely honest: no. I think it's too unlikely. But remember, we're talking about Moriarty. Nothing's impossible with him. However, Sherlock's not mad and caution dictates that you take him seriously."

"I know my brother better than you do, John."

"Do you?" John gave him a hard look.

"How much do you know about his childhood?" Mycroft asked sweetly.

"Next to nothing."

"There."

They stared at each other in silence. Finally, Mycroft got to his feet. "I regret to say it's not Sherlock's first episode of paranoia and delusion." He gave a false smile and walked to the door. Before leaving, he casually added, "John, please get ready to be moved in a few minutes. Mrs Watson, we'll meet at the press conference. Thank you."

Mary and John both scowled as the door closed.


	14. Insurgency

**Insurgency**

Mycroft closed the door to John's room and nodded at the security team outside, giving them the cue to organize John's transport to a safe location. Walking down the corridor, Mycroft reached into his coat to take out his phone. He stopped mid-stride: it was not there.

His mind started racing, frantically trying to recall the moment he had last had it – and then his face knotted into a deep frown of annoyance.

Sherlock.

He spun round, and there he was: his brother stood in the hallway, at the head of the staircase, hands clasped at his back, his face a veritable thundercloud. The expression vanished instantly, morphing into pleasant serenity with frightening speed.

Mycroft was suddenly overcome by the realization just how unpredictable his brother had become; his heart sped up, throbbing almost painfully as he walked towards him.

"Missing this?" Sherlock smiled sweetly, holding out the phone to him.

Mycroft slowly took it, staring at his brother. With growing concern he admitted to himself that Sherlock's fake smile would have convinced him, had he not seen the wrath only seconds before. Never before had Sherlock managed to successfully fake emotions in front of him; he had always seen right through his little brother, even if everybody else fell for it completely. Sherlock had perfected the art of pretense, Mycroft realized, and his throat suddenly felt dry as he wondered to what extent Sherlock might have fooled him already.

"Why did you take my phone?" he asked, fighting not to swallow and betray his dismay.

"To see whether you uphold your end of the bargain," Sherlock answered smoothly.

"Then you know that I do," Mycroft replied carefully.

"I see you have arranged for Professor Sheffield to come to your house next week?"

Mycroft gave a tight smile. "He is pre-eminent in the field of treating post-traumatic stress disorder, Sherlock."

"I am aware of that. And why did you invite him to your house?"

"I assumed you would prefer to speak to him in an informal setting rather …" Mycroft hesitated imperceptibly.

"Rather than in a clinic," Sherlock finished coldly.

"Yes." Mycroft raised his brows. "I hope I assumed correctly?" He scrutinized his brother's face, but read nothing there. _Nothing_.

Sherlock just shrugged.

"And what else have you seen on my phone?" Mycroft asked, struggling to keep his voice devoid of emotion.

Sherlock shrugged it off. "That your government work is as dull as ditchwater."

It was a lie, Mycroft realized. But what disconcerted him was the fact that he could not say why he knew Sherlock had lied – the knowledge was based on instinct, not observation. He felt Sherlock's piercing gaze on him and stared back unwaveringly, searching for clues; today his eyes were green as reed rather than grey, he thought absentmindedly … and finally accepted the debasing truth: he was apprehensive of his little brother. If not to say afraid. It took all his self-control to remain impassive.

Mycroft straightened, declaring with false cheerfulness, "We shall proceed with our plans, then?"

"Oh, by all means, Mycroft," Sherlock agreed with a faked vigour that sounded so wrong it grated on his ears. "Only, there's a slight game changer."

"Is there?" Mycroft raised his brows, his eyes restlessly scanning his brother.

Sherlock's face was suddenly set in stone. "When I woke up this morning, brother, I knew I had missed something. There's always something … until now, I did not know what." He paused.

"And now you do?" Mycroft asked slowly, careful to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes."

Mycroft waited for an explanation, but Sherlock seemed unwilling to give one. Faking bemused indifference, he sighed, "So, what has your ingenious mind missed?"

Sherlock stepped closer, his face only inches away. "You, betraying me. You, misleading me."

Mycroft straightened, stopping himself from baulking at the accusation. "Sherlock, I did not–"

"Shut up!" There was so much venom in his voice that Mycroft fell silent. "Don't think that I've suddenly turned into an idiot just because I can't make sense of my memories!" Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest but decided to remain silent, given that Sherlock had balled his hands into fists.

Sherlock's face abruptly changed into a friendly mask. Smirking, he drawled, "Brother dearest. You intend to section me, right here, right now. Did you honestly think those hilariously unobtrusive male nurses on both ends of the corridor would fool me?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "There are men moving on the floors above and below us – don't even think about denying it, I can _hear_ them. There is no way out for me, I will run into your minions no matter whether I race upstairs or downstairs: you've closed a ring around me. You never intended to keep to our agreement, you've planned to cart me off to a mental hospital against my will all along. You've only waited until now because you needed my help to capture Moran – and I suppose, to grant me the peace of mind that John was safe, even from an imaginary Moriarty."

Mycroft held up his hand, trying to pacify. "Sherlock, please–"

"Don't!" he bellowed, red hot rage burning inside him. He huffed out an angry breath. "Don't lie to me." The only thing that kept him from lashing out at his brother was the obvious distress in Mycroft's eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm worried–"

"I know you are." His anger suddenly died down. To his great surprise, it made him sad to see his stoic brother so upset; he had always thought he'd relish the moment he finally managed to unsettle mighty Mycroft.

He did not.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. Slowly, almost sadly, he shook his head. "Mycroft; Mycroft. You think it's over. But it has barely begun." He reached out a hand but never touched. "Goodbye, brother."

"Sher- NO!" Mycroft dashed forward, but it was too late.

Sherlock had vaulted over the handrail of the stairway before his brother even realized what he was doing. Jumping down two floors, he landed with pinpoint accuracy, never staggering, darting off as swift as an arrow and making straight for the main entrance.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, leaning over the banister. "There are men down there as well! Don't make a fool of yourself!"

But Sherlock was not to be stopped: he elegantly avoided one agent, knocked down another and pushed an abandoned wheelchair into the path of a third. "For God's sake!" Mycroft cursed and started running down the stairs, tossing aloofness to the wind. His men had already secured the exits as well as the main entrance, and he was certain they would catch his brother, but he did not want him to get hurt or humiliated. Panting, he reached the ground floor. "Sherlock! For God's sake, don't force me to have you subdued like a common criminal!"

Sherlock actually stopped for a second. Whirling around, he snarled, "Try!"

Before any of the agents were even close to him, he had grabbed a visitor's chair and was sprinting towards the entrance doors, the agents outside bearing down on him. At the very last moment, he sidestepped, hurled the chair with full force against the window, smashing it to bits. Another reckless vault through pieces of broken glass and metal, and he was gone, leaving the agents shouting and trailing behind.

Mycroft stopped at the shattered window, staring at the murderous shards. Stunned, he slowly became aware of the shrieks and shouts of passers-by and the embarrassed looks of his agents, who had failed to catch an unarmed man.

And then, for the first time in years, the ever-dignified British Government cursed loudly, for all to hear.


	15. Elopement

**Author's note: Dear Amy, don't worry, I won't leave you hanging! I accidentally marked the story _complete_, and now I seem to be unable to 'uncomplete' it – when I'm logged in, it says _in progress. _I'm at a loss here … **

**To all my readers: Thank You! You saved my day.**

**Elopement**

Mycroft was striding back to John's hospital room, the weight of the world on his shoulders and a sour look on his face. He noticed one of his more competent agents approaching him hesitantly. By the look of the man, another catastrophe had just occurred.

"Yes, Harrison, what is it?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to say we've lost your brother. We were able to track him until …"

He waved the man off impatiently. "Have you tried tracking his phone?"

"Yes, Sir, it turns out to be impossible."

"That was to be expected. Track his coat. There's a microchip in it."

"Sir, I'm sorry, we've already tried that, too."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me he deactivated the chip as well."

"No, Sir, he didn't."

Mycroft arched his brows. "So, where is he?"

"Um, Sir, according to the signal, right here."

Mycroft's raised brows dropped into a dark frown and he groaned inwardly. 'Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!'

Turning away, he rummaged through his pockets and soon found what he was looking for: a tiny chip, no bigger than a pinhead. So Sherlock had known all along that his beloved Belstaff was more than a _welcome_ _home_ gift. Mycroft managed to shut his mouth just in time before he did the unthinkable: cursing twice in a day.

He sent the agent away and knocked on the door to John's room. Upon his entering, John raised his brows and Mary tilted her head curiously. He noticed that she was sitting on the bed, next to John, with her hand in his, and he had wrapped an arm around her. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your goodbyes," Mycroft began, "but there is a slight change of plan."

"Why?" John and Mary echoed simultaneously.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sherlock has taken matters into his own hands. He left, and we cannot track him." He gave John a piercing look. "John, I need you to tell me if you have any knowledge whatsoever as to what he plans to do or where he might go. Even conjecture would be helpful at this point, I regret to say."

"What?" John gaped at him, dumbfounded. "Hold on – what?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to rephrase the question, but Mary cut him off. "Don't bother, Mr Holmes, I'm sure John just needs a few seconds to process the information. So do I, by the way. Why on God's great earth would Sherlock run off? He's got all he wanted. John's safe, Moran taken, Moriarty about to be captured – or not, according to you. Why would he change the plan?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Well, there was a slight misunderstanding about the timing of the plan."

John narrowed his eyes at him and Mary inhaled sharply, both waiting for an explanation. "Care to elaborate?" Mary prompted.

Mycroft smiled benignly. "I will not trouble you with irrelevant information, Mrs Watson."

Mary scowled. "I'd like to decide for myself what I consider irrelevant, Mr Holmes."

Suddenly, John groaned, realization hitting him. "Oh, no, no. Tell me you didn't." He stared at Mycroft, his mouth hanging open in horror. "Seriously, Mycroft. Tell me I'm wrong. Please."

Mary's eyes darted from John to Mycroft, who was busy scrutinizing his umbrella. Then she understood. "He did," she stated flatly.

Mycroft looked up and found himself facing two icy stares. It was … strangely disconcerting.

Mary sat up sharply. "You never planned to go through with that plan to lure Moriarty into the open. That's why you have no contingency plan! You lied to us! You just wanted to capture Moran and then trap Sherlock! Oh, you–" she abruptly clamped her mouth shut before something decidedly uneducated could slip out.

"Do I get this right?" John asked, his voice almost breaking. "You planned to section him, to drag him off to be treated against his will?"

Mycroft remained silent, his face a mask.

John blinked in shock. "Oh dear God, please don't let this be true." He buried his face in his hands and moaned. "Honestly, Mycroft, can it get any worse?"

"Hardly," Mary declared coldly.

John looked up sharply at the stoic figure. "Mycroft, even if your plan had worked, what do you think this sort of betrayal would do to Sherlock? Hm?" Suddenly, his patience snapped and anger flared up red hot; he slammed his fists into the mattress and he yelled, "Were you NOT BLOODY THINKING?! MYCROFT?!"

The man in question stared back, looking decidedly bored, had it not been for the twitching muscle at his temple.

Fighting for self-control, John huffed out several breaths before going on in a dangerously low voice. "Let me get this straight. You have – again – betrayed your brother." He held up a hand to stop Mycroft from interrupting. "No, you listen. I know you worry about him. Constantly. But are you aware of what you have done? At all? Hm?" John's eyes were glittering with fury. "Mycroft, we're talking about a man who is severly traumatized, who was betrayed, captured, drugged and tortured; who clearly suffers from PTSD and possibly paranoia. Your brother. Whom you accused of being delusional and seeing conspiracies where there are none. Mycroft," John held up a finger, shaking his head. "If Sherlock wasn't paranoid before, he now sure as hell has every reason to be. _I'm_ getting paranoid over all this, goddamnit!" He felt Mary's hand on his, squeezing reassuringly, and suddenly he became aware of the searing pain from his bruised ribs. John shook his head, groaning.

"I'm sorry, John," Mycroft said as calmly as possible. "However, what is done cannot be changed. Please tell me if you know where he might go."

"No. I don't. I know nothing, Mycroft. You know he didn't talk to me." John laughed hysterically. "That was the whole point of faking my death, wasn't it? Sherlock. _Shut_. _Me_. _Out_."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "There is something else I need you to help me with."

"Who says I want to?"

"Sherlock is in danger, John." Mycroft raised his brows.

"Thanks to you!"

Mycroft pouted. "I would strongly deny that, but–"

John held up a hand. "Three years ago, you fed Moriarty the information he needed to destroy your brother, kicking off this avalanche. So: just _shut up._"

"Well, if you see it that way." Mycroft twisted his umbrella. "However, it does not change the fact that Sherlock is in great danger. Therefore, I need your help."

"If Moriarty doesn't exist, why would Sherlock be in danger?" Mary countered.

Mycroft shot her an irritated look. "First of all, there are quite a few people who have a score to settle with Sherlock. Secondly, Mrs Watson, as you yourself may have observed – without telling John, of course –" he smiled sweetly at her, "that Sherlock is potentially suicidal. He is not able to cope with his mental problems, and it is very likely that he will revert to substance abuse in an effort to self-medicate."

"Suicidal?" John's voice cracked. "What are you talking about?" Horrified, he looked at both of them, but received no answer. He closed his eyes, willing the nightmare to go away, but it was no use.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "John, I assume Sherlock will rely on his homeless network. Therefore, I need to contact them."

"Forget it. They won't talk to you. Neither will I."

Mycroft stiffened imperceptibly at the rebuff. "John, surely you see-"

"No, I don't." John crossed his arms and stared him down.

Mycroft bit back an impatient remark. "John. I can't believe you suddenly do not care about Sherlock anymore."

"Oh, I care. That's why I won't tell you anything. You've had your chance."

Mycroft's face seemed to freeze for a moment, then he tried again. "I am the only one who has the means to find and protect Sherlock. He needs help, John-"

"Agreed. But you want to lock him away. Can't see that helping."

"John, I deeply regret that this crisis has arisen. My priority now is to find Sherlock and get the best possible help for him. I need your cooperation to do that – and I will promise you that he will not be treated against his will–"

"You're lying," Mary said softly, tilting her head and watching him like a hawk. "I can tell."

Surprised, Mycroft turned towards her, realizing that he had not paid sufficient attention to her. "I can assure you, Mrs Watson, I am not lying." His voice was colder than ice.

"Well, then you're not telling the whole truth, Mr Holmes." She stared at him with her dark blue eyes, daring him to challenge her.

John quickly looked at his wife, then back at Mycroft. "I know you mean well, Mycroft, but you won't listen to anyone and I'm afraid you'll section him anyway when you think it's necessary. I don't trust you." He shook his head emphatically.

Mycroft closed his eyes and retreated into himself; for a moment he resembled Sherlock, but the similarity vanished as soon as he opened his eyes again. "Perhaps I can remedy that," he sighed and reached out, his elegant fingers probing under the hospital bed; when he pulled his hand back, a small black object was lying in his palm.

John bristled. "Ah, f..., Mycroft, you – argh …" John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Mary smiled wryly. "Well, I hope your agents had fun listening to our activities." She shrugged. "Pervert."

"Hardly," Mycroft defended himself. "Information is vital."

"Sorry, Mycroft," John sneered. "That does definitely not restore my trust."

"I am aware of that, and I have not deactivated the device with that intention." He pulled over a chair, sat down and crossed his legs. "What I'm going to tell you is for your ears only. I deactivated the bug because I will not entrust some random government agent tasked with listening to you two snogging with this information." He paused.

John raised his eyebrows, but remained silent.

"I have told you that Sherlock was working on a particularly important case when he was captured," Mycroft began carefully.

"You said he was hunting Moran." John's voice sounded cold.

"He was doing much more than that," Mycroft raised his brows. "He started out hunting Moran, but in the face of the scheme he uncovered, apprehending Moran became a minor task."

"So what did he uncover?" Mary asked quietly.

"A horrendous terrorist threat," Mycroft replied smoothly. "Sherlock went to Afghanistan, following a lead on Moran. You certainly know, John, since you have done your own research – as you were keen to point out – that Moran served with the army in Afghanistan and has connections in the region. He is involved in gun running and smuggling drugs – after all, Afghanistan is the world's largest producer of opium." Mycroft gave a tight smile. "Sherlock discovered a deal Moriarty had arranged before his demise; a deal which Moran was about to conclude. It turned out, a terrorist group had contacted the Consulting Criminal, and as always Moriarty had provided excellent service. Apparently, this group is not content with petty suicide bombings and _the_ _usual_ _amateurism,_ as Sherlock called it. This group is new and in need of a reputation, and they seem to have the money to build it. All they needed were the brains."

"Which Moriarty provided," John grated.

"Indeed. Moriarty devised an ambitious project, it seems, and arranged the business deal, putting them in contact with the right people to purchase what they needed."

"And what is that?" John held his breath without realizing it.

Mycroft smiled. "A small nuclear warhead."

The silence that followed was thick and stifling. Suddenly, the outside noises seemed absurdly loud and intrusive, as if London's traffic were passing right outside their door.

"Where would they get that?" John asked in a low voice. "Even on the black market, you can't just go and buy nukes."

"Indeed." Mycroft smiled weakly. "As I said, it is a _small_ nuclear warhead, nothing fancy, but deadly if used correctly. Apparently, the warhead was bought from a Russian organization. The leftovers from the cold war are still being dished out, it seems," Mycroft raised a finely arched brow in disdain.

"That's why Sherlock was in Russia," John concluded.

"Obviously," Mycroft confirmed. "He had identified the man at the centre of this business deal – a big shot in Russian business, has his fingers in every pie and very close relations to all the important members of the Duma. He sold the warhead and organized its transport to its destined site of operation."

"And where is that?" John rasped barely audible.

Mycroft's smile vanished, and for once all affectation was gone from his demeanour. "London."

"F…" John rubbed his forehead. Mary placed her hand over his knee. "What do they plan?" she asked softly.

"I regret to say we do not know, Mrs Watson." Mycroft gave her a long look and there was no pretense in his voice. "But now you will understand why Sherlock was willing to take a huge risk to obtain this information."

"And he failed, getting himself captured," John moaned.

"No."

Both heads turned to look at him.

Mycroft raised his brows. "Sherlock succeeded in the end – he reverted to measures you would be very surprised to hear."

"What measures?" John interrupted sharply.

Mycroft frowned. "That is not important. However, Sherlock managed to enter the villa of the Russian business man; he gained access to his safe where he keeps electronic records of his entire business data. Sherlock managed to copy it. The Russian does not know that his entire business data was stolen. To the day, I suppose."

"Jesus, that brilliant genius …" John whispered.

"Imagine, John," Mycroft said in a low voice, "not only the delivery location of the warhead is disclosed there, but also detailed records of who ordered it, who shipped it, and most of all, who financed it. We were never able to get to the men in the dark. We always suspected Saudi princes, but without proof …" He raised one hand. "Now there is proof and probably a lot more."

"And Sherlock transferred the data onto his phone?"

"Yes."

"No wonder the Americans where so keen on it. And the Russians. And everyone who got wind of it." John sighed. "Why did the Americans not tackle this Russian big business fish themselves?"

"He has powerful friends, and blackmail is of course also on his business list. Apart from that, no one even knew the man kept such meticulous records." Mycroft smirked. "The Americans have no idea of the scale of information Sherlock obtained."

"Huh." John gave a dry laugh. "But the phone is gone."

"Unfortunately."

Mary asked suddenly, "But how do you know London is the target?"

"Sherlock found out early on," Mycroft explained. "Therefore, we were able to establish with certainty that the warhead was transported to London." Mycroft folded his hands. "Given several other clues, we assume that the target is the Tube."

"The Tube," John hissed. "Bloody hell …"

"The Tube anniversary," Mary said slowly. "It fits."

"150 years, and the pride of London." Mycroft nodded.

"Shit." John squeezed his eyes shut. "How many tunnels are there? Oh God. You'll never find it."

"It is difficult."

"But nothing's happened?" John looked lost. "During the celebrations, I mean?"

Mycroft shrugged. "The year is not over yet. It is possible that they are just biding their time to avoid the massive amount of security we have in place or that they simply had trouble meeting the deadline." Mycroft sneered. "Big projects tend to lag behind schedule. Why would terrorists be more efficient than governments?"

"Huh." John folded his arms. "So, there's a nuclear warhead somewhere in London; the target is most likely the Tube; we don't know where it is or when it's gonna go off. Therefore, what we really need is Sherlock's bloody phone, because all of the information we want plus a lot more is on it; but the phone is God knows where. And what's Sherlock doing, by the way?" He frowned, shock, fear and worry coalescing into a tight knot in his stomach.

"Searching the phone, of course," Mycroft replied. "He is convinced Moriarty has it."

"Oh God … and you think Moriarty is dead. Mycroft, you seem very relaxed about the missing phone." John's anger suddenly won over; he wasn't quite sure who he wanted to punch more urgently – Sherlock for risking his life in Russia or Mycroft for burdening his brother with this impossible task.

"The phone cannot be accessed, John, the information on it is safe, and I assume some kids in Russia found it – the rooftop where Sherlock hid it is known as a hideout for homeless teenagers; they are now proud owners of a non-functional high-tech communication device belonging to the British Secret Service."

"Which will blow up in their faces if they try to open it," John spat.

"Sherlock insisted on acid rather than explosives," Mycroft smiled. "Ever the chemist."

"Fine." John nodded in irony. "Sounds great."

Mycroft's face became serious again. "Do not worry about the phone, John. The warhead is more important."

"I see. So." John huffed out his frustration. "What do you expect me to do? You wanted to lock me up in a safe place – is that still the plan?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together before answering. "Yes. But in order to find Sherlock, I need to contact his homeless network, and I need your help to do that."

John shrugged. "I can't help you; even if I wanted to, I can't get you access to the homeless network because I simply don't know anything about it. I never had anything to do with it."

"What a pity." Mycroft sounded genuinely disappointed.

John frowned, racking his brain. "So, what do you think Sherlock is up to? What will he do?"

Mycroft smiled. "Contact Moriarty. Make a deal with him."

John rolled his eyes. "Moriarty is dead, according to you."

"Exactly. "

"Problem?"

"What do you think will happen when my brother finally accepts the truth?" Mycroft folded his arms. "Imagine him, alone, possibly on top of a building, realizing that he is indeed delusional, that the torture has destroyed his brilliant mind, that the phone is lost and he can never restore his memory? That his old life, the life he so desperately wants, is once and for all over?"

John and Mary both remained silent for a long time. John knew what Sherlock would do; he had seen it all before.

"Hang on," Mary suddenly snapped. "What has the phone to do with Sherlock's memories? And why has he lost his memories in the first place?"

Mycroft blinked in surprise, realizing that he had given away something he had not intended to. Annoyed, he frowned at himself. This had never happened before – Sherlock's escape must have upset him more than he had thought. "You are very observant, Mrs Watson," he admitted grudgingly. "Sherlock kept a diary on the phone."

"A diary?" John exclaimed in surprise. "You mean, he kept notes."

"No, John, a diary." Mycroft sat up slightly. "A meticulous report on everything that happened to him, including his thoughts and … emotions."

"Why?" John gaped open-mouthed. "I thought he considers that a complete waste of time - I mean he even found my blog ridiculous. Why did he keep a diary?"

"Because I suggested it to him."

"You?" John's mouth fell open. "Why?"

Mycroft almost – almost! – squirmed in his chair. "Let us say, Sherlock's state of mind at the time in question was very fragile. I thought it would help him concentrate."

"Did it?" Mary asked quickly.

"Yes, as far as I can tell."

"So," Mary said slowly, "Sherlock wants to get this phone back not only because of the data stored on it; he needs his diary to fill in the gaps in his memory. I understand that – but why did he lose his memory in the first place?"

"Torture, Mrs Watson." Mycroft stated calmly.

"Torture doesn't destroy your memories."

"Some forms do."

Mary shook her head. "It makes no sense – usually, you torture people to get information, not destroy it!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "Unless you come to the conclusion that there is nothing to be obtained; or you have found out that the most vulnerable spot of your victim is indeed not his body, but his mind."

Mary closed her eyes in horror. "So they realized he wouldn't break under conventional torture, but threatening his mind, his sanity – that might get to him."

Mycroft held her gaze. "And it did."

* * *

After the door had closed behind Mycroft, John looked into Mary's eyes. She held his gaze for a long time, and not one word was spoken, but a silent agreement made.

"Come here," John whispered and she snuggled closer until their faces touched. "I bet Mycroft has cameras in here," John whispered, "so this will have to look like a long kiss."

She just chuckled and started to gently bite his earlobe.

"Mary, I can't let Sherlock-"

"I want you to be safe, John."

John hummed in approval. "I know. But Mycroft will change his plans now. Since he can't use the homeless network to get to Sherlock, he'll use me to lure him. _Me_. I'll be the reason why he comes out and ends up in a loony bin. I know Mycroft. He's busy setting up a trap right now. With me as bait."

They remained silent for a long time, only their quick breaths indicating both their agitation. Finally, Mary bowed her head and pretended to kiss along his jawline, her lips brushing against his skin. John swallowed nervously, trying to control his excitement.

"John, I love you. So much, that I know I can't protect you."

"So you'll let me go."

"Oh no. I'll _help_ you go," she chuckled. "If you swear to come back."

He smiled and kissed her.

In the end, it was easier than they thought. Mary went out to prepare his escape route; the men came in to transport John to a secret location, disguised as a corpse. John pretended to oblige, then jumped up, threw a few punches, knocked down two people, snatched a gun, and bolted, using the fire escape ladder. Mary stopped his pursuers quite effectively by pushing over the food trolley stocked with dishes for the entire ward.

Lunch was cancelled that day.


	16. Coming Home

**As always: Thank you.**

* * *

**Coming Home**

It was raining.

One of those London rains that came down with a vengeance, instantly drenching passers-by and shrouding the streets in a white mist. People were hurrying along, heads down, cursing at the cars sending up fountains of water; gutters and sewers were overflowing, flooding Baker Street with a torrent of rain, dirt and litter.

God, how he had missed it.

Sherlock stood watching from the shadows, relishing the sting of cold raindrops on his skin: they made him feel alive. But more importantly, they made people unobservant. He had identified every single agent Mycroft had posted around his flat; his brother was careful, although he never suspected that Sherlock would dare to return to Baker Street.

But he did; and he relied on his homeless network to distract Mycroft's men. He was now waiting for the signal to move.

And there it was: the beggar crouching under a doorway two houses down tugged at his cap. Sherlock hurried across the street, timing his crossing effortlessly to be hidden by passing cars. Key in the lock and the heavy door of 221B fell shut behind him without any of Mycroft's agents noticing.

There were three reasons why he took the risk of returning: first, he needed his old computer – lamentably outdated after three years, but still a minefield of information and set up to break into Mycroft's security system. Second, he needed a place to think. Third: he wanted to go home. Actually, that was the only reason. Sherlock smiled ruefully.

Mrs Hudson was home. And she was coming to see who had arrived.

This was the difficult part. He had tried to prepare himself, but he was not sure how he would react to her embracing him – he found any intrusion into his personal space intolerable. He had carefully avoided or bluntly rebuffed all attempts to be hugged or touched since his return, and the only exception had been his own assault on John at Battersea. It had worked then; he had been prepared, running high on adrenaline, feeling neither pain nor revulsion, only the need to protect.

It had not worked, however, during their second encounter in the MI6 office – his mind had been stuck in a loop of panic, paralyzing him, and the result had been disastrous. He could not do that to Mrs Hudson; he knew her need to touch him and reassure herself he was alright would be overwhelming, and Mycroft had certainly not warned her of his sensitivity problem. Sherlock's return to Baker Street had not been part of the plan, so why worry the poor woman?

The door to her flat opened. Sherlock straightened up.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson threw her flour-covered hands into the air and, in defiance of her frailty, dashed towards him, virtually throwing herself onto him. "Sherlock! I can't believe it! Oh, my boy, it's really you!" She hugged him with surprising force, leaving white marks of flour dust on his back. "Are you all right, dear?" She pulled back to look at his face.

"I'm all right, Mrs Hudson," he assured her, giving her his best boyish grin.

"Oh, look at you–" she stepped back, firmly grabbing him by the arms. "You look dashing! Apart from that nasty cut along your throat, and have you been in a fight? There's a bit of bruising under your eye, but heavens, Sherlock, if I may say so, it makes you look more masculine!" She giggled like a school girl and pulled him back into a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, sorry, love, now you've got flour all over you – I'm making scones, you know, you have to try some, with a nice cup of tea!"

He almost cried at her words. Oh, if she knew … but she never would. Carefully, he embraced her too, taking in the familiar scent of her perfume, her soft hair and papery skin, and suddenly he felt a rush of elation running through him, for there was no pain, no fear, no feeling of being stifled – it felt like home. He was home.

At least for a few merciful moments.

It took him a while to convince her that he had work to do upstairs, and no one was to know that he had returned to Baker Street, least of all his brother. She only let him go after thoroughly brushing the flour from his coat and making him promise he'd have scones with clotted cream later. And another hug, of course.

17 steps and a creaky door. He pushed it open with his fingertips, taking in the familiar smell of dust, paper, and more dust. Lingering in the floorboards was a vague chemical scent, a legacy from numerous experiments; what was missing, however, were the smells of tea, toast and John. Thus, it was an empty home.

Mrs Hudson had not removed anything. All his possessions were left in boxes, but what could not be moved was still in place: the chairs, the smiley, the bullet holes, and for whatever reason, the skull. Sherlock stood taking it in for several minutes. Then, he silently walked into every room, memorizing the changes, noting every missing bit, mentally filling it in.

John's room was completely empty. Of course, he would have taken his few pieces of furniture to his new home in Kensington. Disappointed, Sherlock realized that three years had destroyed every trace of scent and most other signs of John's presence, too.

The bathroom – just empty. Not even a forgotten piece of soap.

He entered his own bedroom. It was the same as the living room – the furniture was still there, but the smaller objects were stowed away; he found Goethe peaking out from a Fed Ex box next to the riding crop, but the photo of his brother had been wrapped in tissue and placed in a tea chest, along with his torch, magnifier and notebook.

He opened the drawers of the closet and grinned: his underwear was still there. Probably too personal to pack away, he thought with a smirk. His suits were in the closet, too – though he quickly closed the doors again, the smell of moth powder was simply overwhelming. Mrs Hudson's desire to preserve his Spencer Hart suits had not only kept away the ever-hungry caterpillars of _tineola_ _bisselliella_, it also sent Sherlock straight into a painful coughing fit, reminding him of the persistent problem of a developing pneumonia. Not now, he grumbled to himself.

He could not find the violin. Strangely, this upset him so much he stood rooted to the spot for a full minute, his face pulled into a dark frown and his mind reeling. Mycroft's doing?

And then it hit him – no, John had taken it. John had refused to inherit anything, but he had taken the violin as a memento of his dead friend.

Oh.

Sherlock felt the maelstrom of emotions boiling up again, and he tried to turn his mind away – there were much more urgent matters to attend to.

He failed. Miserably.

So he sat down on his bed and began to dissect his feelings. He would not have done so three years ago … but now, it was necessary: his mind did not function properly under the onslaught of emotions. He knew he could not turn them off, but once he identified them, he could restore some sort of order, keeping them in check. Just like he had done with the flat, he began by taking stock what troubled his mind. Or rather, who.

There was Mycroft. The relationship with his brother had always been strained; but his dependency on Mycroft during the hiatus had changed the nature of it. His brother had become the only link to his old life, the life he so desperately wanted back, and Mycroft had never let him down, had talked him through many bitter nights, and had rescued him from his torturers. He knew that Mycroft was impressed with his work – not even his best agents had ever come close to achieving so much in only three years, and he had done it in ways Mycroft had thought him incapable of. His work had earned him Mycroft's respect.

But now Mycroft had betrayed him: he had intended to section him, breaking his promise to help him capture Moriarty. From Mycroft's point of view it was certainly a logical and necessary decision – really, Sherlock thought, it was his own fault, for he had seen through his brother's plans too late. After all, he had known about Mycroft's doubts that Moriarty was alive. He had not realized, however, that his brother was utterly convinced that he was delusional and suicidal. He had assumed Mycroft had only recognized the post-traumatic stress disorder and the problems caused by his damaged memory – which did not warrant compulsory hospitalization.

So, he had failed at hiding his pain properly. 'Really,' Sherlock thought with a wry smile, 'my own fault.'

He raised an eyebrow at himself: honestly, it was a compliment to Mycroft's observational skills to have read him so accurately; and as always, he had acted out of concern. Sighing, Sherlock decided he did not hate his brother.

But maybe this was only because he was too tired to do so, and this did not mean he had to forgive him. Fine. Nothing changed, then.

Then there was Mrs Hudson. She was the last person he had expected to throw him into such inner turmoil – and all simply by hugging him. Until she had embraced him, he had thought he could never tolerate anyone's touch again. But now there was hope – hope, that he could indeed heal.

My dear old lady.

Finally, John. Always John. It caused him enormous distress to think about him. He had hurt him so much; and he wanted his forgiveness more than anything else. Why was it so important what John thought of him? It was an endless mystery; he did not particularly care about his brother believing him to be delusional, but if John did – the idea made him cringe. It was of utmost importance that John knew what was going on in his mind, therefore he had kept up writing the diary, and he had to make sure he received it. If John believed he had lost his mind, so be it; but it was vital that he knew Sherlock had not acted out of cruelty, but because he cared.

John had to know he cared. Nothing else really mattered.

Therefore, he had to finish Moriarty's game. And maybe there was the tiniest chance that he would get out alive … strange, he smirked, only this morning staying alive had not been a priority. Quite the opposite, now. Everything had changed.

Feeling slightly better, he got to his feet. There was work to do.

It did not take him long to find his laptop – it sat right next to the microscope, all neatly bubble-wrapped in an cardboard box. He dug it out, unwrapped it, and plugged it in. It was booting up instantly, and within a few minutes, he had transferred the data he had stolen from Mycroft's phone to the laptop in order to review it.

Much later, he sat down in his leather chair, chin resting on his fingertips, thinking. God, how he had missed it.

He kept his mind floating, not entering his damaged mind palace, only puzzling together the pieces of information he had. He arranged and rearranged them, sorted some out, added others, filled gaps, and suddenly, everything fell into place.

A nuclear warhead.

A secret meeting.

The heads of security of five principal nations.

The pride of London.

Vanity.

Sherlock's eyes widened. How elegant; how very elegant. He lowered his hands and exhaled slowly. Now he knew what was going to happen.

He did not know, however, how to prevent it. Slowly, he got to his feet and walked over to the sofa. Ignoring the dust, he lay down. He did not dare to close his eyes, afraid of falling asleep; exhaustion weighed him down more heavily than ever, but he could not rest, he had to solve this conundrum.

Strange, he thought, that Mycroft hadn't made the connection; but then again – it was logical. Once you rule out the impossible … and his brother had ruled out something as impossible which was not: Moriarty was alive. Mycroft, mighty Mycroft, dear Mycroft, his beloved brother who had guided him through the darkest night, had made a mistake. He had assumed the Consulting Criminal was dead. Then, all Mycroft's actions were perfectly logical, wonderfully reasonable, painfully dull. And all driven by worry.

His thoughts were straying … and how strange that his feelings, so utterly dead only days ago, were now rearing up with a vengeance. Stop it. No time.

Another round of plotting, then. He was better at that.

One hour later, a slow smile spread across his face. He had a plan. A dangerous one.

He jumped up so fast that the world went black. Swaying and growling with annoyance, he waited until his vision cleared, then scrambled for his phone to make several calls. There was a lot to organize – and timing, timing was crucial. In fact, everything hinged on timing.

And because of that, he had some time left before he could take the next step.

After having finished with the phone calls, he sat down in his armchair. He still had a promise to fulfill: writing the last chapter of his diary.

Sherlock sighed and calmly faced the demons his memory unleashed from their dark pit, attempting to chain them with words. It had to be done; John had to know.

It left him exhausted. Signing the last entry with his customary initial, he hoped that this would not be the last message John ever received from him. The chances were slim, though.

But now it was time to act: he slid the phone into his pocket, stood up and ransacked the living room until he found the bottle with the yellow Michigan hardcore spray paint, then grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a message on it. He phoned another member of his homeless network and in less than ten minutes there was a knock on the door downstairs. Mrs Hudson answered and, as instructed, gave the kid the paint, the message, and a generous tip.

Sherlock stood hidden by the curtains and watched. The red-and-black IOU sign, Moriarty's message, was still there, obviously refreshed, taunting Baker Street. Now it was about to receive an answer.

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile as the kid cast a furtive glance around the corner and sprayed a new message in big, yellow letters next to the IOU. The boy finished just as one of the neighbours appeared, and ran off, throwing the bottle at the man with full force.

"Oy, you punk!" The man yelled, but the offender was already gone. Puzzled, he stood in front of the glaring letters, reading them again and again, hands on his hips.

**CC **

**Want to blow up paradise? **

**Meet me in the sky, before nightfall. **

**No devil there. **

**SH**

The man could not make heads or tails of it, and eventually, he shook his head, dismissing it.

So did Mycroft's agents, of course.

Sherlock smirked. "The game is on, Jim. Come and play."


	17. Gone Rogue

**Again: thank you for your reviews. I actually blushed!**

* * *

**Gone Rogue**

John scrunched up his face in confusion. Drenched to the skin, he was standing outside the heavy door to 221B, panting, with his bruised ribs aching, when he caught sight of the blasted IOU sign, still bright and fresh as if brandnew.

Wait a moment: it was new – someone had repainted it.

He remembered it all smudged and blurred from a failed attempt to scrub it off – and that was almost three years ago, when he had removed his few belongings from Baker Street. Someone had sprayed it on the wall again, and fairly recently.

But there was more: the wall sported a new message, in bright yellow letters, right next to the IOU. And John knew exactly who had put it there.

Sherlock.

**CC **

**Want to blow up paradise? **

**Meet me in the sky, before nightfall. **

**No devil there. **

**SH**

What the hell did _that_ mean?

John stood and stared and puzzled and shook his head in exasperation. Well, _CC_ was certainly the Consulting Criminal, so it was addressed to Moriarty. But where the hell was paradise? Was it the name of a place, a restaurant, a church? Or was it an acronym? Did it have anything to do with the bomb in the underground system?

Moaning, John rubbed his face – he couldn't figure it out. The only thing clearly stated was the time. Sherlock intended to meet Moriarty before nightfall – okay, but where? _In the sky?_ Did he mean he was going to kill him, sending him to nirvana? No, then he would have written _meet me in hell. _

There was no devil? Huh?

Then it hit him.

Of course … John's jaw dropped in realization. There was no devil in the sky: it meant Mycroft did not know about this. It was an invitation to come and make a deal with Sherlock, bypassing Mycroft.

It was a promise that the devil's brother had gone rogue.

But he still didn't know where Sherlock was. John frowned, worrying his lip in confusion, when he suddenly became aware of three men in dark suits bearing down on him.

Damn it. Mycroft's men.

He didn't run – that was what they expected him to do, and if he did, he stood no chance. Instead, he yanked out the key, shoved it into the lock, giving a triumphant yelp when it turned immediately; he threw open the door to 221B, rushed in, slammed it shut and ran straight up the stairs. Without giving the place a glance, he dashed into Sherlock's bedroom and scrambled out of the window.

He knew there were holds set in the wall allowing him to climb onto the roof of the next building and then down a fire escape. Sherlock had used this exit whenever he had wanted to avoid Mycroft's cameras on Baker Street.

'Fabulous foresight, Sherlock,' John thought wryly as he made his way down into a narrow alley full of bins. 'But where are you?' He stopped and looked around, racking his brain for ideas where to continue. He had come to Baker Street hoping to find clues to what Sherlock planned, certain that Sherlock had at least stopped by. And he had. But John didn't understand the clues.

He cursed and dialled Mrs Hudson's number. She must have heard the commotion and perhaps she had seen Sherlock – he would have talked to her, right?

The phone rang.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a movement. Thinking Mycroft's men had caught up with him, he swivelled around – but no: someone else had appeared at the end of the alley, digging through the bins. He recognized her: she was one of Sherlock's homeless network. And she recognized him, too: she halted, but didn't run. She certainly wasn't interested in the bins – she was here to keep an eye out. Which meant, Sherlock had talked to her.

John forced himself to put on his friendliest doctor face and slowly walked towards the girl. If he wanted to get any information out of her, he'd have to convince her that he was only trying to protect Sherlock.

Which was the bloody truth anyway.

* * *

"Don't worry Mr Holmes, I'll show ye how to hold 'im," Will smiled eagerly, revealing a tooth gap. "Alfred's my best and brightest, and I just love 'im, but he's a bit shy. Don't worry, he'll trust you. He likes good people."

Sherlock seriously doubted he belonged to the good people, but he wisely kept his mouth shut; and on whatever criteria the pea-sized brain behind those beady eyes decided who qualified as being good, Sherlock apparently passed the test: the surprisingly warm body settled into his cupped hands willingly. He could feel the tiny heart fluttering with excitement, vibrant with life, despite its fragility. The wiry feet folded underneath the belly, and the smooth roundness of the chest was pressing into his palms, caressing his skin with its unbelievable softness. The gleaming eyes never left his own, speaking of trust, of instinctive faith that he would not clench his hands to break bone and squash …

He stopped the thoughts immediately.

"He's a brave one, my Alfred," the rotund man chuckled proudly. "Always finds his way home. Defied a buzzard once! Almost got ripped to bits."

"Alfred," Sherlock murmured, gently stroking the silky throat, thinking of golden kings and Saxon warriors fighting the Lords of the North over a thousand years ago.

"Called him after my nephew, a prize boxer!" Will smiled. "Won prizes, Alfred. Both, I mean – boy and bird."

"Of course," Sherlock blinked, a bit stunned. "And he'll accept me when I handle him?"

"He's doin' it now, ain't he?" Will smiled, obviously proud of the bird, and of the fact that the great Sherlock Holmes, who had once proven that Will Stampton may have fixed one or two boxing matches but was certainly no murderer, had come to him seeking help. And he was able to provide it, he of all people, not the mighty brother or the tough DI from the Yard.

Sherlock regarded the racing pigeon from all sides, noting the big eyes, wide nostrils, strong wings and the angular body, so different from that of city doves. He was eyed back with equal curiosity, he noted. He couldn't help but smile. "Fine. You know what to do."

"Sure, Mr Holmes, sure. I'll send Billy to take 'im there, the lad's simple but good. And don't worry, Alfred will come home straight as a die."

"Good." Sherlock carefully handed the bird back. Alfred seemed reluctant to leave his warm nest, hesitating before getting up and gingerly stepping back into his cage.

Sherlock watched the bird ruffle its feathers, meticulously rearranging them, and wondered how this creature had managed to captured his attention so thoroughly that he had blanked out the acrid smell of bird droppings and disinfectant.

It hit him now. He was suddenly racked by a coughing fit, his lungs burning painfully, assaulted by the stifling air full of dust; the noise made by hundreds of claws and wings and beaks seemed to tear straight into his brain. With tears stinging in his eyes, he hastened away from the cages, striding towards the Thames. A drizzle was rippling the water, but the cold clean air was infinite relief.

"Ye' not allergic, are ye?" Will asked hurrying after him, concern written all over his face. "Sounds like ye gonna cough up a lung or two!"

"No," Sherlock gasped between coughing and wheezing. "It's just a cold." He took a deep breath and willed the spasms away.

"Fucking London weather! Fog and rain." Will nodded wisely. "Ah, there's Billy. Come'n over, lad!"

Sherlock watched as a gangly fourteen year-old approached, loose limbs dangling, obviously uncomfortable with strangers, the world in general, and himself in particular. His ginger hair stuck up in all directions, he had more spots than freckles and his miserable expression spoke of a severe case of teenage heartache.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and took him in with one look: unstylish clothes, obviously chosen by his mother, who was also responsible for his haircut – a guarantee for bullying; a friendship bracelet, the colours and uneven knotting crying _little sister made it; _residue of birdfeed on the turn-ups of his trousers, not the regular stuff, but a treat, probably fed to his favourite birds secretly when his uncle didn't look because it made the pigeons fat; dog's hair, cat's hair and he had a freshly peeled carrot in his pocket, probably nicked from his mother … for a hamster? Possibly a rabbit. More pets than friends, so an outsider but not a coward – it took courage to face your peers clad like this and looking after pigeons instead of hanging out with your mates. He didn't have much self esteem by the way he cringed under Sherlock's look, but he was honest – shy, but not evasive. However, he was not simple, Sherlock thought; Will was wrong in that. And that was good.

Billy listened intently as Will explained to him what he had to do. Sherlock kept watching the boy; he was eager to please, but even more eager to break out of his misery and be part of an adventure. Excellent. Smiling wryly, Sherlock withdrew a few steps, seeking the clean air of the river.

Under a leaden sky, the dark surface of the Thames was whipped by a sudden downpour, drenching him to the skin; it didn't matter. He took out his phone and typed a message to Mycroft. Even his brother would not know what to make of it yet, but he would understand soon enough. After sending it, he reset his phone's password to a much simpler one, a single word, easy to crack for anyone who knew him well. Mycroft would figure it out instantly. Then, he typed one last message to his brother – without sending it. He was not to read it yet. Timing was crucial. Finally, he scribbled an address into his notebook, tore out the page, folded it into a neat square and went over to Billy.

The boys eyes' were glowing with excitement and he stood a good inch taller. Sherlock held up his phone and the folded paper. "Take the phone to this address. Give it to Mycroft Holmes, no one else. He's expecting you."

The boy nodded eagerly, all worries forgotten for a moment.

"Billy," Sherlock deliberately dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do not lose it. Under no circumstances. And stick to the time frame I have given you. I rely on you, Billy." He gazed into the boy's blue eyes, knowing about the power his own icy stare exerted, and he saw the kid quiver with awe and fear and gratitude. His own voice broke a little as he said, "My life depends on it."

It was not a lie.


	18. Glass

**Glass**

John groaned. He was standing in front of London Bridge Tube station without the slightest clue where to go next.

People were bumping into him, sending painful jolts through his bruised ribcage; one cursed, one apologized, two shoved him. Buses and cars rushed past, honking and splashing him with rainwater; a bike courier nearly ran him over, sparking horrible memories of the day Sherlock jumped; the smells of coffee and pizza from the stalls hit him, making his stomach growl and reminding him that he hadn't eaten in ages.

He swivelled around, but found himself at a dead end. The homeless girl had only known that Sherlock had ordered some of her companions – his most trusted ones – to London Bridge Station. Disguised as glaziers. Sodding glaziers! What on earth did he want with them?

John pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned again. This whole thing was really wearing him out and it was getting late – nightfall wasn't too far away. And why glaziers? There wasn't a single piece of glass worth replacing in the whole area – the bloody tube station was a veritable brick and concrete pageant.

Suddenly, his knees felt weak and the world started to spin and the whole venture seemed totally stupid and futile – Mycroft was right, if anybody could find Sherlock, it was his omniscient brother, not a dull and desperate doctor.

But then again, Sherlock had escaped from his brother's grip again, and it was him, John Watson, who had figured out that the daredevil would go home to Baker Street. So, he was here, and Mycroft was not. John smiled. Anyway, the whole despair thing was just because he was starving. An army marches on its stomach.

He decided to cross the street to get a bagel from a stall. His concentration was fading fast – maybe an after effect of the anaesthetic, he thought vaguely – and was almost run over by a cab. He jumped back, and the driver honked madly, swearing and shouting at him. "OK, got it!" John yelled. "Sorry. No need to freak out." His heart was racing and he realised that he had to calm down and try to concentrate. Panic was getting him nowhere. "Right," he muttered to himself, "somehow this is going to work out." He bought a bagel with smoked ham and cheese and bit heartily into it; God, food could be such a comfort, how could Sherlock reject it while on a case? Idiot. And what the hell was he on about glaziers and glass … the bagel was really good, one of those small mercies … munching busily, he looked up.

Jesus Christ.

He almost dropped the bagel. A bit of cheese fell from his mouth.

Glass. Tons of it. Reaching right up into the sky.

_The Shard._

Seventy-two storeys high, rising three hundred meters to pierce the cloud belly with its slivers: this was as high as it gets. _Meet me in the sky._ If this was not the place, then nowhere in Europe was.

John hastily swallowed the clot of ham and cheese clogging his mouth, then dumped the bagel in a bin and hurried across the street.

The Shard. Of course! It had opened only last year in July, full of offices, flats and god-knows-what, all at insane prices. But more importantly, it had a viewing platform at the very top, amid the clouds. The perfect place to meet someone. _In the sky_.

John jogged along the pavement, yanking out his phone. He had no intention of calling Mycroft – but he needed help, most of all if Moriarty was indeed involved. He still didn't believe that the Consulting Criminal was alive, but if he was to save Sherlock – and be it from his own madness – he needed assistance. He needed someone they both trusted.

The call was answered immediately. John grinned: Lestrade had probably not expected to speak to a dead man.

"Greg? It's John – yeah, I'm alive-" his voice was drowned out by shouting and cursing from the other end of the line. He held the phone away from his ear, rolling his eyes. "Greg, shut up! Just – shut up! It wasn't my fault, it was Mycroft. And don't call him! Do you hear me?!"

There was a startled silence.

"Greg?" John slowed to a walking pace, panting already, ribs aching badly.

There was a hoarse cough. "Yeah, John. It's just a bit much, you know. Two resurrections in as many days. I've never believed in miracles, but I'm tempted to become religious now!"

"Haha," John snorted. "This miracle isn't finished yet. And if Sherlock's right, there's gonna be another resurrection. Hang on-"

"What?"

John stopped dead in his tracks, the Shard only a few meters away. A sign had caught his eyes: _The Shangri-La Hotel. _Somewhere damn high in the Shard. He gaped, his mind racing.

_Shangri-La_ was a legendary valley, a kind of paradise, he was sure, it had been in a BBC radio play – and wasn't there some sort of a book, too? Never mind. _Shangri-La _was another word for paradise. But this meant that Sherlock assumed –

"John?" Greg sounded worried. "What's going on?"

John's heart suddenly pounded at double speed. "Greg. We need a bomb squad."

What followed was the longest, loudest and most colourful string of curses he had ever heard. He couldn't have agreed more fervently.


	19. Cloudscape

**_To magentacr:_ The message Sherlock typed and did not send is for Mycroft to read after figuring out the password – it's not meant to be sent. It contains the information that the bomb is in the Shard. I'm sorry for the lack of clarity! The original text had a lengthy explanation which I found boring, so I deleted it … I guess being concise would have been better! :-)**

**To all readers: thank you again. **

* * *

**Cloudscape**

Completely overrated: not much of a view. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

Anyway, he objected strongly to being herded like sheep – which was precisely what the cloudscape was for. Stepping onto the observation deck of the Shard, he had walked straight into an artificial view – an illusion of clouds covering the windows, blocking out the real world. Its purpose was simple: to stop visitors from stumbling out of the high-speed elevator and flocking straight to the panes, clogging the platform and obstructing the view. Instead, you were hustled along, shorn of a steep entrance fee, to climb stairs of steel and glass and fancy red wood, expensive, exotic, and designed to disguise the fact that it was just a sheep fence, after all.

He followed it nonetheless.

Finally, he reached the top of the skyscraper: steel rods and shards of glass reaching into the open sky, the rain and noise of London omnipresent, even a thousand feet above the ground.

Sherlock looked around and was unimpressed. Primrose Hill was much more intriguing at any time of the day. Who would be so stupid as to pay thirty pounds just to stare into a grey sky, above a grey Thames, meandering through a grey city?

A busload of Chinese tourists, it seemed, all gaping and chattering and posing and holding up their smart phones and cameras, filming each other and everything around them, completely ignoring the view.

It was a mystery to him. Why take in the world via a tiny screen instead of using your senses? Why did people travel to the far side of the world only to be obsessed with holding up their phones? Why not enjoy and memorize? He would never understand.

He had said as much to John once, and the doctor had smiled patiently, explaining, 'People don't have your ability to memorize things, Sherlock. I guess they want to hold on to the moment and relive it afterwards, sharing it with their friends. That's why they film it. You know, in retrospect, everything's more glorious than it really was. You forget the long wait, the bad food, the cold weather, the tall guy blocking your view – later, it was all perfect and you love to remember it.' A cutting remark on his lips, Sherlock had suddenly become aware of John's fond expression, clearly lost in a happy memory of his own. So Sherlock had shut his mouth, huffing quietly.

He did not understand; he never would. But it obviously worked for John, so it was good.

Now, however, there was no John and nothing was good: high above London, his feet rooted to the wooden floor and his body surrounded by glass and steel, his mind had trapped itself between fear and hope. The clouds were travelling low above the Thames, shrouding even St. Paul's Cathedral so that the impressive dome was barely visible. Baker Street was too far away and too fog-smothered to be more than a grey streak, and home seemed horribly distant. The faint drizzle was forming drops on the window panes, making them slippery. That bode ill.

He sighed. He had always hated waiting, even if it was waiting for disaster. The Chinese tourists milling about were grating on his nerves with their drivel in Mandarin dialects, and the ever-smiling hostesses in their sharp suits slinking around set him on edge – the first were too loud, the second too silent, and together they were too many to keep track of them, and his instincts told him to cover his back and retreat, but there was nowhere to retreat.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Moriarty would make his appearance at some point. Maybe he just took delight in seeing him being ground down by the stupidity around him; and maybe his minions were no more intelligent than Mycroft's, meaning it had taken them a while to discover his message, and the Consulting Criminal was simply late. Or maybe Moriarty just enjoyed watching his prey.

Sherlock would not grant him the joy of seeing him shaken. He stood tall, his face set in stone, eyes cold.

Waiting.

Nightfall was approaching, the building was illuminated from within now, and the tourists had left. He felt the suspicious looks of the hostesses on his back, unsettled by the stoic man in the black coat, staring out of the windows, unseeing, unmoving.

The darkness brought doubts.

In his mind, he heard Mycroft's voice, _Moriarty is dead, Sherlock. I was thorough._

No. He was alive, and he was here. Moriarty could be disguised as anyone, even as one of the hostesses – he glanced around furtively. No, he was not among them, he might fool an ordinary man, but not him.

His heart suddenly beat faster, almost a throbbing pain in his throat. What if Mycroft was right? What if … what would he do if it turned out that he was indeed delusional, hunting shadows, seeing threats were there were none? Mad?

He swallowed. What would he do? Would John forgive him, help him?

Yes. The answer was immediate and rock-solid. But Lord, the shame, the disgrace, the ridiculousness of it all … and worse, no way to regain his memories, reconstruct what had happened, the phone gone, his suffering wasted …

Doubt. He felt the blackness creeping in on him again, sticking to his mind like pitch, clogging it, dragging him down into desperation.

Suddenly, the hostesses all left. Ah.

Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly and all his senses reached out as far as they could, searching for clues. He forced himself to keep breathing steadily, hiding his anticipation, denying anxiety.

He was alone, no more voices, just sirens and the hum of traffic and wind.

And then … oh, yes.

Footsteps. Slow, amused.

Leather soles on slippery wooden floor, probably Gucci, worth roughly four hundred pounds; the whispering of finest Italian wool … Westwood, again?

No – Sherlock stiffened, a chill running down his spine: there was no amusement in the steps now, suddenly they were hesitant, almost faltering. His eyes widened at the barely perceptible reflection in the window; he felt his blood run cold, rushing to the floor, leaving him feeling weak and sick.

"Sherlock …"

An outstretched hand, apprehensive, reaching but not touching, afraid to spook him like a panicked horse.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. "How did you find me?"

A moment of silence, then the hesitant answer. "I read your message on the wall."

"You weren't meant to see it." Sherlock clenched his hands into fists. "Don't tell me you guessed I would return to Baker Street. I do not believe it."

"And I did not. The clues, leading away from 221B, were subtle enough to be convincing."

"Then how did you find me?"

"I followed Dr. Watson."

"John?" Sherlock whirled around. "You followed John? So he's on the run and not safe? Mycroft!" Sherlock darted forward like an angry tiger. "You swore to keep him safe!" His hands flew up, as if to grab him by the throat, but stopped mid-air.

Mycroft flinched, visibly struggling not to step back from his enraged brother. "John is safe, Sherlock, there is no danger to him."

"Where is he?!"

"It's not important, Sherlock, he's fine. Moriarty is dead. This is about you, brother. You are in danger. Please. Listen." Mycroft held up his hands, hovering an inch over Sherlock's own, still poised to attack. Slowly, he reached for Sherlock's hands, in an attempt to calm him, but Sherlock recoiled, hissing at him, "Don't touch me!"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, please accept help." There was no condescension in his voice, just genuine concern and heavy weariness. His face was the perfect image of calm and sensible, but his eyes betrayed his anxiety.

Sherlock sneered, "You want to lock me up, Mycroft. Is that your idea of help?"

"Brother, please …"

Sherlock was so close, he could see every wrinkle around Mycroft's eyes, the tiny spider veins along his nose, the faint lines of worry around his mouth. He had aged in those three years, and not just physically, Sherlock realized. Suddenly, his will to fight was gone and he felt a huge weight fall onto his shoulders, dragging him down. So he just blinked wearily as the elevator doors slid open and two tall men clad in dark suits emerged, purposefully striding towards him.

"I thought you would have the grace to accompany me yourself, Mycroft," he drawled, "instead of having me dragged off by your minions."

He saw the momentary flash of confusion on his brother's face; then realization struck him. He wasn't even listening when Mycroft turned around, frowning. "These are not my men."

Footsteps, again.

"No. They are mine."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on Mycroft. He knew what was coming and did not want to miss his brother's expression. If only he could have enjoyed it. Never before, and never again would he see his brother thunderstruck, utterly horrified, and shocked into silence.

Oh brother, if I could spare you this …

"Did you miss me?"

Sherlock sighed and slowly turned towards the newcomer. "No. Not at all."

"Pity." James Moriarty stepped out of the elevator, taking everything in with one glance. He was indeed wearing a navy blue Westwood suit, Sherlock noted wryly, with a matching Alexander McQueen skull tie and Gucci shoes. Hands in his pockets, he ambled towards them, glee written all over his face.

"Maybe _you_ missed me, big brother?" He stopped in front of Mycroft.

Sherlock noticed how pale his brother suddenly was – his lips were almost blue and he seemed frozen in time, staring at the apparition in front of him. Moriarty frowned, bending forward, pretending to poke him but stopping short. "Oh," he whispered, "I think he needs to reboot." He sniggered. "You don't, though, Sherlock. Clever boy. You're not surprised to see me. At all." He smiled at him, almost fondly. "Did you like the little trick with the perfume?"

"No."

Moriarty's face fell. "You're a hard man to please, Sherlock. I thought it was really clever, handing you over to the Americans, having you tortured and conditioned on that expensive smell. It worked nicely, though – you almost killed poor Dr. Watson's wife just because she smelled a bit offensive. Wouldn't you have been happier if Miss Morstan – oh, sorry, _Mrs Watson _were dead?"

"Certainly not," Sherlock drawled, a hint of disgust in his voice.

"But she snatched your precious live-in from you - I would not have reckoned magnanimity among your virtues." Moriarty smiled slyly. "But then again, you probably blame it on me."

"I do."

Moriarty gave him a hard stare, then suddenly rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, stop being so stuck up. You could at least pretend to be a tiny bit pleased with me. You owe me, Sherlock! I gave you the best case of your life! You've fooled the entire world with your faked suicide, you all but destroyed my network, you've just pulled off a resurrection and you've captured my best sniper! But most of all, Sherlock: you were right and your brother was wrong." He pulled down the corners of his mouth. And suddenly, he yelled, "I HAVE GIVEN YOU YOUR GREATEST TRIUMPH, DOOFUS!"

"I didn't ask for it," Sherlock replied coldly.

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't appreciate it," Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock remained silent.

"Well," Moriarty shrugged, strolling over to the window. "You should enjoy it while you can. It won't be long."

"I expect so."

"You're boring."

"Too bad."

"Indeed."

They remained silent for a few moments, Moriarty's men standing in the background like wax figures. Moriarty slowly turned his head, looking Mycroft up and down. "I think he's defrosted now. He's getting red in the face."

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

Moriarty turned to Mycroft. "So, Mr Holmes, did _you_ at least miss me?" He tilted his head to the side, leaning forward. "I certainly missed you. I remember our encounters very well, in that dark cell, when you had me handcuffed to a chair, watching through that mirror while your minions interrogated me with their fists. Getting nowhere, of course." He sneered. "I was always so looking forward to our little chats, when I wormed the truth out of you, about your little brother." He straightened up abruptly. "I paid in blood, though." Nodding to himself, he looked at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. "Every bit of your life-story was paid for with a good bashing up."

Sherlock sighed in mock sympathy. "If I had known I was so interesting … you could have just asked me, you know. No need to bleed for me." He raised an eyebrow.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. "Don't overestimate your attractiveness, darling."

Sherlock scoffed. "Modesty most definitely is not among my virtues. Why else would you have gone to all the trouble?"

"I was bored."

Sherlock managed to smile serenely.

"What?" Moriarty snapped at him. His reptilian eyes darted back and forth, hunting for an answer.

"Bored, yes," Sherlock smirked. "Looking for appreciation, too – the frailty of genius. But there's more." He turned to face him.

"And what would that be?" Moriarty kept his voice neutral.

"Envy," Sherlock whispered, and stepping closer, he dropped his voice. "Loneliness."

They stared at each other, hatred and admiration crackling between them like burning green wood.

Finally, Moriarty huffed. "Your pet Watson is overrated. He's loyal, but his mindless drivel would drive me mad."

"Get yourself a dog, then."

"I'd rather have you," Moriarty hissed.

"You've had your chance," Sherlock snapped, "but you preferred to torture me."

"No. No, no, no." Moriarty shook his head vehemently. "You wouldn't break, Sherlock. You never know when to stop – that's your problem, you always have to have the last word, even if it costs you _everything_. I wanted to see you beg, make you crawl to me, but you wouldn't. You left me no choice. All I could do was destroy you. But then big brother spoiled the fun." Moriarty frowned at Sherlock. "You don't remember, though, do you? All those memories burned away …"

"What do you want?" Mycroft finally interjected, carefully enunciating each syllable. "What is it all for?"

"Oh, listen, he's found his voice again!" Moriarty cackled. "You do know that you were always the real target, Mr Holmes? I only ever got to Sherlock because I wanted to damage the British government."

"Why are you saying this?" Mycroft whispered.

"Don't tell me you didn't know." Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I only played with Sherlock because I wanted to get your attention, to show you what I can do. But then everything changed …" he chuckled to himself, and Mycroft flinched in disgust.

"It was easy. You said so yourself: give him a puzzle and watch him dance. I enjoyed it. I really did. But it was you I was interested in – you, the scheming spy master at the heart of the British government. The Ice Man, always in control. Never shaken. You shook pretty badly when your brother hit the ground in front of St. Bart's, didn't you? How long did it take him to tell you he was alive? An hour? Or longer? I bet those minutes you believed in his suicide were _agony_."

Mycroft curled his lips in revulsion.

"But when I realized that Sherlock had faked his death-" Moriarty stood and blinked, shaking his head. "I was impressed. Truly, I was." He turned to Sherlock. "What a swan dive. Elegant. Powerful. _Risky. _That was the moment I decided you, dear Sherlock, were far more interesting than your boring brother. You know no limit. That is _so_ sexy." He smiled languidly. "So I watched from the shadows as you set out to unravel my web."

"How could you just stand by and watch?" Mycroft wondered, not trying to conceal his confusion.

"You don't understand, do you?" Moriarty drawled. "Reason and logic is all you know. Boring!" He raised a brow at Sherlock. "You understand, though." He walked around them, his eyes never leaving the two brothers. "Watching you evolve," he stared at Sherlock, a look of pure relish on his face, "was worth it. Seeing you become something entirely different, so much more like me … I bet you were surprised yourself, Sherlock. Becoming a schemer, a killer, a seducer …" He scrutinized Sherlock's impassive face. "Oh my God," he whispered in sudden realization, mouth falling open. "You don't remember? You don't remember sweet Irina – oh!" Moriarty stepped back, eyes wide in surprise. "That's what you get when you fool around with a self-declared sociopath." He swallowed, scrunching up his face in deep concern. "She's in real trouble because of you Sherlock. Poor Irina." Abruptly, his features morphed back into a cold mask. "You might want to think twice about getting that phone back, Sherlock. Your memories are not pleasant. You're better off without."

"Hardly." Sherlock pressed his lips together, his eyes fixed on Moriarty's hand slipping into his suit pocket.

"There it is!" the Consulting Criminal sang out and produced the shiny black gadget from his pocket. "The phone. _Your_ phone. With your diary." His gaze slid to Mycroft. "I know you'd love to have the data on it. Bad luck."

Mycroft stiffened. "Well, you cannot unlock it either."

"True," Moriarty smiled, "but that's what I've got Sherlock for."

Sherlock raised his brows. "You are aware that I came here to make a deal with you. You can have the data as long as I get the diary."

"Oh, how generous. I don't think your brother approves, though."

"Neither do I care nor is he in a position to object." Sherlock shot Mycroft a cold look.

Moriarty chuckled. "Brotherly love, oh dear. And I thought you had grown closer – after all those phone calls from all over the world. Seriously, do you not remember the nights you called your brother, whining about how miserable you are?"

Sherlock just shrugged, keeping his face blank; not even Mycroft could detect the storm building behind those sea-green eyes. Of course he remembered. The name Irina meant nothing to him, but neither John Watson nor his brother would ever be deleted from his memory. They were etched into his soul.

"Let's get down to business," Sherlock snapped, "you've done enough gloating."

Moriarty huffed. "Always so impatient! You miss the best parts in life if you rush things, idiot!"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm bored."

"Good point." Moriarty shrugged. "OK. Business, then." He snapped his fingers and the two men advanced immediately. "Your brother, Sherlock, is now my pawn. You do understand that he owes me, don't you? I mean," he bent over to Mycroft, "he did torture me. I have to repay that."

"You returned the favour by torturing me," Sherlock spat. "That should suffice."

"Uh … no. No, it doesn't. I'm curious how your brother holds up. I have a bet running, you know? You broke a record with your resilience, Sherlock. I want to know how long it takes to make the Ice Man melt." Moriarty sniggered. He nodded at the two men. "Take him." They stepped forward and grabbed Mycroft by the arms, virtually lifting him off the ground. "Somehow, I don't think your brother is quite as tough as you," Moriarty drawled, frowning. "You put up the hell of a fight on that roof in Russia."

"Got me nowhere."

"True."

Sherlock could only stand and watch as the two men marched his brother off. Mycroft looked pale and drawn, but did not protest – he knew it was in vain; all that remained was to preserve his dignity.

The doors of the elevator closed, and Sherlock caught one last glimpse of his brother, his eyes pleading with him to be sensible and save himself.

Sherlock sighed, feigning calmness. "Where are you taking him?"

"Just a few floors down, to the _Shangri-La_. Magnificent view, from the hotel rooms. Though I doubt he'll enjoy it."

Sherlock looked down upon Moriarty. "What do you want from my brother?"

"His secrets, of course." Moriarty shrugged. "After all, he is the British government." He started strolling around again. "Aaaand then there's the little matter of the bomb and the conference." He smirked.

"What conference?" Sherlock frowned.

"Oh, come on Sherlock," Moriarty spat, "don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you. You know exactly what's happening here today, that's why you chose this place: the secret meeting of the security heads. It's taking place right here, right now, a few floors below our feet, with your brother on the way to join the fun. The eyes of the Anglo-Saxon world meeting in an Eastern paradise, the _Shangri-La_!" He scoffed. "Well, in the end it's just a hotel. I bet after all the security talk they're planning to have a bit of a party. I might crash that, though. Imagine what havoc I can wreak." He ambled over to the windows again, staring down at busy London. "Ant heap," he muttered.

"Which you intend to blow up," Sherlock rasped.

"Sure. Mighty fun. Ever done that? Most kids just kick it with their feet, getting ants up their pants." Moriarty sniggered.

Sherlock just wrinkled his nose. "Boring."

"Your are."

"Suit yourself."

"Come on." Moriarty faced him squarely. "Let's play."

Sherlock raised his brows. "What if I just strangle you?"

"You could do that? Oh. Yes." Moriarty smiled. "You could. But then again, there's the gunman. Oh, don't bother looking for red dots in the window reflection."

A man stepped out from behind one of the metal bars rising into the sky, pointing a gun at Sherlock. "I'm still annoyed you took Moran from me. He was _so_ dedicated to his task. A bit like your Dr. Watson. A _dark_ Dr. Watson. Nice idea." He grinned.

Sherlock knew, without looking, that another man had appeared behind him, aiming at his back. "OK," he sighed. "This is getting tedious. I want the diary. You want the code. We can swap."

Moriarty baulked in mock surprise. "You don't care about the information you have gathered? About the criminals of the world, the threat to British citizens?"

"I'm not the Salvation Army. Caring is my brother's job."

"Speaking of your brother."

"Yes. I want him back."

"He might be damaged goods."

"I waive the compensation."

"Fine. What are your terms?"

"Give me the phone, I unlock it, I download the diary, I give the phone back to you. It will self-unlock, provided I call it within thirty minutes. If I don't, it will be destroyed. Obviously I can't just give it to you unlocked. You'd shoot me."

"True. How can I be sure you call it in thirty minutes?"

"I want my brother back, remember?"

"Ah, yes. And why should I not just shoot you while you download the diary from the unlocked phone?"

"It would self-destruct."

"Of course." Moriarty held out the phone. "Go ahead. No rush."

Sherlock slowly took it, his eyes on Moriarty. The cold smile he encountered sent a chill down his spine. He turned away, unlocking the phone. Then he took out his own phone and connected the two. "You can watch," Sherlock said in a low voice, "I imagine you want to be sure I do not download more than the diary."

"Yes, certainly," Moriarty answered, unperturbed. Craning his neck, he watched as Sherlock brought the device back to life, navigating through the folders. The background displayed the London skyline, without the Shard. "Not up to date," Moriarty remarked drily. "But no need to change the picture. It's gonna update itself in a while. By the way, what are you going to do about me blowing up the Shard?"

Sherlock snorted. "I'll be a good citizen and call the police."

Moriarty laughed out loud. "Oh dear, you really have a wicked sense of humour! They'll be too late."

Sherlock shrugged. "Duty done."

"Good point." Moriarty raised his brows as he watched the download process. "My, you've been a veritable Shakespeare, that many files. Ah – finished."

Sherlock showed him his own phone – only the diary was on it. Then he handed him the lost phone back. Moriarty took it slowly, looking at it affectionately. "Sherlock, there's a flaw in your plan."

"And what would that be?"

"I don't intend to stick to our agreement. Much like your brother." He smirked. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'll take both your phones, I'll make the call to unlock you precious spy phone myself, I'll tie you up and leave you here until the bomb goes off." Moriarty smiled dreamily.

"Why not just shoot me?"

"Boring. You can stay here and think on your sins. Anyway, it's a favour - it must be interesting to experience the explosion of a nuclear warhead firsthand."

"There's a flaw in your plan as well," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Oh?"

"Before I came here, I left a message with the police as well as with MI6. An encrypted e-mail. If I do not send a recall code, it will alert them to the danger of the bomb."

"They will be too late," Moriarty grated. "And, frankly, I don't believe you, Sherlock. Your plans were hinged on your brother not knowing about you going rogue. You relied entirely on him, just as you did those last three years. But your original plan failed and Mycroft came here instead of waiting for your signal. So I got him and you have nothing. You don't have a contingency plan. Neither does he."

"Take that risk."

"I will." Fast as lightening, Moriarty snatched the phone from Sherlock's fingers. Then he called over the two gunmen. "Tie him up. And search him for other electronic devices." He turned back to Sherlock, sizing him up. "Don't want to risk anything with you."

The two men advanced immediately. One aimed his gun directly at Sherlock's head, the other manhandled the detective, quickly searching his pockets.

"Anyway," Moriarty remarked, watching intently, "even if you had another communication device, it wouldn't do you any good." He held out Sherlock's phone: it read _no signal_. "I've jammed all signals. State-of-the-art military technology. No one gets a word in or out. We're back to _stone age_."

Sherlock was roughly dragged over to the metal railing running along the sides of the observation deck. He did not resist – it was pointless. With the first man aiming the gun at him, the other slapped handcuffs on his wrists and secured his arms to the metal railing, forcing him to his knees.

Moriarty strolled over to him. "Any last words?" he asked, bending down to stare him in the eyes.

Sherlock just looked back blankly.

Moriarty grinned, his eyes glittering. "So, the rest is silence."

Sherlock tilted his head up, his eyes cool and grey. The Consulting Criminal shrugged. "Admittedly anticlimactic, this ending. I would have expected more of a fight from you. More brilliance. But we all burn out, don't we? And without John, you're just not the same." He shrugged. "I'll miss you anyway, Sherlock," he drawled and walked over to the elevator, stepping into it. The two gunmen were quick to follow, keeping their weapons trained at him every single moment.

They must be really nervous, Sherlock thought idly, his eyes following Moriarty's every movement.

Before the doors closed, Moriarty saluted him – and there was no mocking in it. "Ciao, Sherlock. See you in hell."


	20. Heart of Glass

**And yet again: thank you so much for your reviews.**

* * *

**Heart of Glass**

A game-changer. Nothing more.

Sherlock pursed his lips. Yet, Moriarty was right: his plan had hinged on Mycroft and perfect timing, and his dear brother had ruined it thoroughly. Neither he nor Mycroft had a contingency plan.

He wondered how much time he had left. Moriarty was certainly in a hurry to carry out his plan: the quick end to their encounter was testimony to that, and despite his nonchalance, he was afraid of Sherlock's threat to alert MI6 to the bomb. Moriarty needed his plan to succeed – he needed to show the world that he was alive, back in business and better than before. Blowing up the Shard would announce his return with a big bang. Failure was not an option. But first, he needed to get away far enough to safely detonate the bomb via remote control. Using his phone, most likely.

So, he had a minimum of thirty minutes. Hopefully more.

Still, finding the bomb, bringing in experts and defusing it would take longer than that. Much longer. If they were extremely efficient, they might just manage to evacuate part of the building. Not the whole thing. And never the surrounding area.

Sherlock idly wondered what the Shard would like like, blown to pieces. A lot like the twin towers, he mused, but it depended on where the bomb was and how big the detonation would be. Given Moriarty's expertise, it was more likely that this entire area of London would be erased from the map.

He frowned. Would London Bridge still be there? Without it, the traffic would be a nightmare.

Unacceptable.

There was only one way to stop the detonation: get hold of the remote-control. Which was undoubtedly in the hands of Moriarty. Quite literally.

Therefore, he was in a hurry, but all he could do was wait.

There was something else that was making his current predicament hell: John. He worried about him – if Mycroft had followed him, it meant John was nearby, and thus in grave danger. And there was nothing he could do about it – not yet, anyway. First, he had to rescue bloody meddling Mycroft.

The thought was less than appealing, particularly since he was not prepared for it; his escape plan had not included extracting his stupid brother from Moriarty's claws. Not even the fact that Mycroft would be mortified and indebted to him for the rest of his life made the venture more attractive. Really, it would all be so much more fun if John were here.

Moriarty was right, he was just not the same without his blogger. Friend, he corrected himself. No, even that term was insufficient. _Heart_. That was it. Again, Moriarty had seen right through him, as early as the pool incident, and he had set about burning his heart out with stunning efficiency.

Hateful. All of it.

Still waiting.

A constant tingling in his throat.

Sherlock sat down and wriggled into a slightly more comfortable position – as far as possible, given that he was handcuffed to a metal rail. He suddenly became aware of how cold it was – the top of the Shard was open, allowing rain, wind and fog to find their way to the observation deck, chilling him to the bone. He was stuck, the adrenaline rush had worn off and the lack of food and sleep hit him with a vengeance now. His lungs seemed to be constricted, punishing every deep breath with a stabbing pain and torturing him with a constant urge to cough – surely, this was the worst time for the bloody pneumonia to manifest itself. Just his luck.

Suddenly, his ears picked up a sound above the wind and city noise: a bump, the chink of metal, rubber squeaking. Then, a rope flying over the railing, landing only a few feet away from him, followed by scrabbling and a loud curse. Sherlock lifted his head expectantly, looking up into a weathered face with a tooth-gaped mouth grinning at him.

"Glaziers are here!"

* * *

"For God's sake, at least call Mycroft Holmes and check with him!" John glared at the two security guards, broad-chested and tall as trees, who just stared back blankly. He might as well have talked to a cupboard. With the difference that a cupboard would not have held on to him with a vice-like grip.

He was standing outside the Shard, at the bottom of the escalators leading up to the building. The construction was a lot less impressive when you were underneath it, he thought – just a strange big chunk of glass. Or a gigantic toothpick. The moment he had tried to enter the building, he had been apprehended by the security guards – someone had obviously informed them he was coming. Moments later, a black car had pulled up and two dark-suited men had emerged, undoubtedly Mycroft's. The man himself had not deigned to show his face, however, but John had caught a glimpse of his PA, so Mycroft was bound to be here.

John tried his persuasion skills again, but in vain. He sighed in relief when several police cars pulled up, followed by Lestrade's grey BMW.

"John!" The DI jumped out and ran across the plaza towards him, several officers in tow.

"Greg! Good, oh good, I'm having a bit of trouble here," John huffed, pointing at the two burly security guards. "These gentlemen are extremely stubborn. It seems Mycroft's men caught up with me. Should've known he'd have me followed. Listen, apparently Mycroft's arrived in the meantime, didn't bother to speak to me though – I bet he's gone up to the top of the Shard, probably speaking to Sherlock right now. This isn't going to end well – and I don't even want to think about what happens if Sherlock's right and the bomb is somewhere in the building."

"Any clues?" The DI rasped.

John shook his head. "I have no idea where, my guess is that if it's there, it's in the basement or the foundations or even the elevator shafts – wherever the structural damage will be biggest. We have to evacuate the building – actually the whole area! And we have to find the bloody thing!"

"Why isn't Mycroft on to it?!" Lestrade yelled, yanking out his phone.

"He thinks the Tube's the target – doesn't believe Sherlock."

"But you do?"

"When has he ever been wrong, Greg?"

"Damn." Lestrade fiddle with his phone and cursed when it refused to work. He turned back to John. "I've alerted MI5 as soon as you called me. The cavalry's just riding in – this can't be handled by a normal bomb squad if it's really a nuclear warhead. They're already here, but we're trying to keep this as low-profile as possible. The last thing we need is a panic! God, if Sherlock's right, we're in a hell of a mess!"

"Tell me about it. Greg, I need to speak to Sherlock. Listen, please call Mycroft, or convince those two bullies to let me go!"

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade frowned and held up his badge. "Back off, guys, you've done your job."

The two looked at each other, then nodded and withdrew. In the meantime, Lestrade cursed loudly, stabbing at his phone. "Can't get through to Mycroft. Can't get through to anyone, actually."

Now it was John's turn to curse.

"Sir!" A young officer came running, holding up his walkie-talkie.

"What is it?" Lestrade growled.

"Sir, we have a communication problem. We can't reach anyone on the upper floors. Someone's jammed all signals – this looks like military technology, if you ask me, Sir."

"The bomb squad's doing?" Greg looked at John, perplexed.

"No, why would they do that?" John shook his head.

"But who's got military technology? If not MI5?" Lestrade looked around, at a loss.

John blanched, a chill running through him. "I can think of someone."


	21. Valiant Warrior

**Valiant Warrior**

"Thank you for your timely appearance, gentlemen," Sherlock smirked, "glaziers are rarely that puncutal when one needs them." With a click, he opened the handcuffs and slipped them off.

"Our pleasure, Mr Holmes," came the immediate reply, "but burglars have a good sense of timing. Need to."

"Of course." Sherlock took off his coat and shoes, slipped out of his suit jacket and donned the dark work clothes of industrial climbers. With the help of his two companions, he also put on the harness-like gear that was meant to secure him while they attempted a bit of abseiling in ghastly weather on wet glass down a very tall building. More than 300 meters tall to be precise, and if the rope broke, there was nothing to stop his fall. Apart from the pavement, of course. Thank God John couldn't see him.

It wouldn't be easy, but climbing up had been a lot more difficult, yet not impossible: the edges of the Shard offered barely a foothold, and you had to freeclimb a few meters on extremely slippery glass without a rope before you could attach yourself to it. A labourious and dangerous task. Going down should be rather straightforward compared to this.

His companions, all experienced cat burglars in the most literal sense, had taken out some of the glass panels a few storeys below in one of the as yet uninhabited residential apartements. It had been surprisingly easy to get entry disguised as glaziers; it turned out they were a common sight on the brand new building sporting 11000 glass panels. Problems abounded, apparently.

All he had to do was go down. He had done it many times, with less equiment and under more pressure. Still, it was shockingly high, the wind drove the rain against the glass, making it as trecherous as ice and chilling his fingers so that he barely felt the rope anymore. His muscles started trembling almost as soon as he felt his whole weight tear on them – and a few feet down he almost hit the wall, literally, scraping knees and knuckles, and metaphorically, running out of energy.

But he made it. Of course he did. With an elegant jump, he landed inside the apartment, where he was instantly captured by the helping hands of the third member of the party. He didn't need the support, though; he never so much as swayed, despite his weak muscles.

"Brought all the stuff you wanted, Mr Holmes," the lanky girl greeted him. "Including your feathered friend."

"Thank you, Miranda," he smiled. She was an audacious freeclimber and not homeless at all, but as a rather too dedicated Greenpeace activist, she had gotten in trouble over some overly-aggressive campaigning involving the sinking of a ship. Mycroft would be so annoyed, he chuckled inwardly.

He quickly stripped off the harness, but left the glazier's outfit on. He also ripped open the twinpack of energy tablets and chewed several, swallowing them with some sort of ghastly tasting energy drink, knowing it would give him a stomachache, but he desperately needed the sugar, and solid food would only make him retch.

When his two assistants climbed in, he asked casually, "How about some housbreaking, gentlemen?"

"Always!" they chorused.

"I should warn you," Sherlock said rummaging through the bundle that was his coat. "It is rather dangerous and we might get killed, but if we succeed, one of the richest and most powerful men in this country will be indebted to you. Are you up to it?"

They raised eyebrows; then nodded eagerly. Sherlock smiled – and it was only half-faked.

"But first things first," he muttered, searching his coat for the tiny gem hidden inside: a secret state-of-the-art gadget, minute and monstrously expensive – one of Mycroft's more useful gifts. And there it was: the smallest ever data carrier which now held all the information stored on his precious phone.

He smiled, a rare sense of elation spreading through his body, giving him more energy than the tablets. Moriarty thought he had the phone and the data – and so he did; but Sherlock had a copy. While connecting the two phones, he had slipped the tiny device into his lost phone, easily concealing it with his fingers; and while his normal phone had been downloading the diary at the usual agonizing snail's pace, the tiny device had done its job at high speed. And more than that: it had also uploaded something; something extremely useful.

A Trojan horse.

Easy-peasy, he thought, remembering Moriarty's words. Just a sleight of hand and a good old-fashioned trick.

Retrieving a new phone from the backpack his 'glaziers' had brought him, he slipped the data carrier into it and transferred the information needed to follow the trail of the Trojan horse, then he took it out again and sealed it into a small capsule. The data was safe. All he had to do was get it out of the building, and since Moriarty had jammed all signals, it needed to be done stone-age style. Well, not quite.

Sherlock knelt down and carefully took off the cloth covering the small cage. He only realized that he had been whispering under his breath when small cooing noises greeted him. A tiny head eagerly squeezed through the rods and pearly eyes blinked up at him with – what? Affection? Seriously? Sherlock smiled wryly. Well…

He opened the cage and carefully took out the bird. It seemed Alfred knew the procedure by heart and found nothing wrong with Sherlock holding him and attaching the capsule to his foot. Rather, he snuggled into his hand, cooing and looking up trustingly. "So, valiant warrior," Sherlock chuckled. "Hurry home."

He released the bird, and Alfred leaped into the air, wings flapping noisily, heading straight out towards the shore of the Thames, with an infallible sense of direction. 'Straight as a die, indeed,' Sherlock thought, 'even in semi-darkness.' He had been worried about the lack of light, but it seemed Alfred knew his way even at dusk and was all the more eager to get home. There, he would be greeted by Billy, and the lanky kid would take the data to Mycroft. Unfortunately, that part of the plan wouldn't work due to the idiocy of his brother, but still, the data was safe. Better in the hands of a timid teenager with a brain than Mycroft's mindless underlings.

He suddenly felt Miranda's eyes on him; turning around, he met her gaze, and she quickly looked away. "What?" he asked sharply.

"N-nothing," the usually brazen girl mumbled. "It's just – I never thought you could … look like that."

"Look like what?" He demanded, scowling.

"So lov-, uhm," she coughed, "… affectionate, I mean."

Sherlock blinked in confusion. He hadn't been aware of himself at all – which was unusual in itself.

"I've always found the company of animals more enjoyable than that of humans," he answered stiffly. 'With a few exceptions, maybe,' he corrected himself belatedly.

"Let's get to work."


	22. Housebreaking

**Yep, again: a million thanks for your reviews.**

* * *

**Housebreaking**

Sherlock gritted his teeth and brutally stifled another coughing fit.

There was not a moment to lose: Moriarty was bound to gate-crash the conference as soon as everyone arrived; he certainly intended to leave the building quickly, probably just bundling up his captives – the heads of security, and of course, Mycroft – to drag them off to his dungeons, or wherever he chose to dwell at the moment.

He just hoped their trip down the Shard had not delayed them too much; Moriarty never took long to capture people. Lots of practice.

He and Miranda arrived at the _Shangri-La_ reception geared up for work, demanding to know in which room they were supposed to fix the panes, causing a flurry of confusion. Within a minute, Sherlock had figured out were Moriarty held Mycroft: one look at their computer system was enough, and he had ample time to study it since the pretty receptionist – young, blonde and flustered – was thoroughly distracted by a loud-mouthed Miranda (God, no wonder even Greenpeace had sacked her).

Sherlock now not only knew where to look for Mycroft, but also where the meeting of the heads of security was taking place – conference room, of course; not that he was interested in them. For all he cared, Moriarty could roast them on a spit, and if Mycroft made a fuss over him abandoning them to their fate, even better. If the illustrious heads of security were too dense to realise they were sitting on a bomb, they were not worth the taxpayers' money. Good riddance.

A faked written confirmation from the manager, surprisingly stashed away behind the counter hitherto unnoticed, convinced the receptionist of the _Shangri-La's_ urgent need for glaziers, and soon Sherlock found himself walking down a corridor in one of the world's most expensive hotels.

For that, it looked rather cheap. Too much grey and brown and sixties' style carpets and curtains. Not much of a paradise.

He just hoped Moriarty wasn't with Mycroft right now; if he barged in on the Consulting Criminal, he stood no chance of getting out alive. His dumb underlings were a different matter, though. A bit of distraction should do the trick. Ah, there they were.

How cliché: two black-suited bullies standing guard at the room's door.

They pretended to pass them. One had his eyes on Miranda spitting on his shoes, the other was about to take out his phone; they crumpled to the floor before either of them became properly suspicious, Miranda relying on a taser and a shockingly efficient blow to the chin.

Sherlock looked at Miranda askance. She just grinned. "Security guards on oil rigs are tougher," she hissed.

He raised his brows, bent down and took the gun from one of the guards, checking it. Holding up his hand, he silently ordered her to stand back. Knocking out a man was one thing; killing was another.

Bracing himself, he strained to listen: timing was everything – yet again.

There: he moved, kicking in the door almost before he really heard the crash caused by his glazier-friends smashing the windows from the outside – or trying to. Security glass didn't break easily, even with special tools.

He took in everything within the fraction of a second: three men; all heads had turned towards the window, the source of the noise. His brother was sitting on a chair close to the glass panes, tied up, one man behind him, gun in hand; second man in front of the sofa, third in the door frame of the bathroom. Two were dead before they noticed the intruder – clean shot to the head, blood splattering the brownish sofa, more blood on the turquoise carpet. A spray of red on the window, the glass thankfully breaking now, shards falling down hundreds of meters. The third pulled a gun on him: he moved just in time to dodge the bullet, hearing it whistle past his face a hair's breadth away, slamming into the wall of the corridor. His aim was flawless; blood on the white tiles now, too. He rushed forward, checking the bathroom – no one in there.

Miranda had slipped into the room, dumping the gear, her face white as a sheet. She didn't question what he had done, but she looked shaken to the core. He turned to her, reminding himself to be kind, to appear human, to reassure her – he needed her. "Miranda," he grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she muttered.

"Can you do what I asked?"

"Sure. Just get going."

He gave her an intense stare. "Once we're down, get out of here immediately. Get away as far as you can. Swear it to me."

She nodded.

"I mean it!" he urged and realized to his surprise that it was true. He did care about her.

"I'm not an idiot," she snarled, "I figured that something's going on in the building. Bomb, I guess."

He stared at her, then nodded. "You might want to apply for a job with my brother," he smiled lopsidedly. "He desperately needs people with a brain." And she would drive him insane with her attitude, he thought with no small amount of glee.

"Speaking of whom …" He turned to Mycroft, who was looking up at him, his blue eyes wide. Duct tape covered his mouth, he was handcuffed, his arms twisted back painfully over the back of the chair, and his legs were also secured with tape. A swollen cheek bore testimony to a resounding slap, but no serious injury.

Sherlock tucked the gun away and tilted his head to the side. "Untie him," he ordered his two companions, who were just scrambling in from the outside, scattering shards and pulling in ropes and hooks. "Leave the tape over his mouth as long as possible. And when you rip it off, make sure it hurts."

They cackled and did as told. In the meantime, he changed back into his suit and coat, and this time he remembered to put on the gloves. The unsuitable clothing would make the descent even more difficult, but he needed to be ready to run as soon as he hit solid ground, and the glazier trick wouldn't work any longer.

Actually, he just wanted to wear his familiar clothes. It was something of an armour.

He put on the climbing gear as quickly as possible, but fastening it around the coat proved to be difficult. Nevertheless, he managed. Miranda checked all the hooks and knots and looked him up and down. "This wasn't planned," she said, her voice thick with worry. "Piggyback takes practice. I could do it for you?"

"Thank you, no," he smiled wryly. "All my life I've tried to get my brother off my back – this time it will simply be a bit more literal."

He almost felt Mycroft wince when they finally ripped away the duct tape covering his mouth.

"What are you doing?" he rasped, eyeing Sherlock's preparations suspiciously.

"What does it look like?" Sherlock snapped.

"Foolish," Mycroft spat.

"Too bad," Sherlock sighed in mock exasperation, "for you're going to join me."

"I am certainly not."

"Yes, you will," Sherlock snarled and nodded at his companions. They grabbed Mycroft and hoisted him unceremoniously towards Sherlock, hitching him to his back.

"Stop that! Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, an uncharacteristic note of panic in his voice. "I'm not-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed. "We're going down, whether you like it or not."

"Why can't we use the elevator like civilised people?"

He definitely sounded nervous, Sherlock thought. Interesting. "Because, Mycroft, someone's bound to have heard the shootout here and Moriarty's people are all over the place. Now, they may be brainless morons, but they do know our faces. The quickest way out is down." He pointed at the shattered window, where the wind was blowing in icy raindrops, ruining the designer furniture.

"Ready?" He looked at his companions, charged with the task of securing them.

They gave their thumbs up.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft protested at the top of his voice, "I will not tolerate this!" He started to struggle in earnest. "We will call help-"

"Moriarty's blocked all communication," Sherlock informed him calmly. "And if you do not keep your mouth hut, I will have them tape it."

"How dare you-"

One nod, and a gleeful Miranda slapped the sticky tape back over Mycroft's mouth.

"There. Afraid of heights, brother?" Sherlock sneered. "Or do you just not trust me? Kindly stop wriggling, will you? You're far too close to me, in every sense of the word. And please try not to hang around my neck like an overfed sloth." He received a vicious kick for the insult, but it was worth it.

Sherlock smirked and made sure that he jumped out _very_ far over the ledge into the rain-beaten night.


	23. Skydance

**Skydance**

Of course Mycroft wasn't silenced for long. He had freed his hands in no time, ripping off the tape and complaining straight into Sherlock's ears.

"Brother, of all the crazy feats you have endeavoured, surely thi-"

"Shutt! UPP!"

Mycroft did. Two things unsettled him (apart from the fact that he was dangling almost three hundred meters above ground in a wind swept night): his voice had a tremor in it; and Sherlock was clearly struggling to keep his footing on the slippery glass with the additional weight on his back. He could feel his brother's muscles trembling under the strain, and Sherlock bumped mercilessly into the glass several times, scraping his knees and elbows. He uttered no sound, but it must have hurt, and the pull on his shoulders had to be excruciating.

Still, for a fleeting moment Mycroft appreciated the thrill of dancing down a skyscraper, wind and rain whipping his face, the lights of London and the illuminated Shard beneath him. That is, until Sherlock slipped in earnest, and they raced down several meters, the rope hissing through his hands. Much to his embarrassement, Mycroft tensed up and clung to his brother's back like a frightened meerkat, and he almost bit off his tongue to stifle the shriek that threatened to escape his mouth.

A yell from above, and their assistants managed to stop the fall, but still, Sherlock had to bear the brunt of it. He crashed into the glass, his spine screaming under the weight – it felt as if his vertebrae and spinal cord were close to being ripped apart, and his shoulder joints threatened to come out of their sockets, tearing at the ligaments. Panting with exertion – and perhaps a bit of shock too – he remained still for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath and waiting for his heart to find a rhythm somewhere in its fluttering madness.

They still had half the way to go.

"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked quietly.

"Thank God that diet of yours works," Sherlock rasped. "A few more pounds and it would have been too much." He felt Mycroft smile, but his brother's concern was almost palpable.

"You have trouble breathing," Mycroft noted.

"I have a lot on my back!" Sherlock snapped.

"You're panting with exertion – more than you should."

"Says the man who upholds Churchill's motto _no sports_," Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft chose to remain silent. Something was clearly wrong with Sherlock, apart from the many other things that were wrong with him – but there was nothing he could do.

After a few moments, Sherlock seemed to regain his strength and they continued their descent. Mycroft felt his heart leap in an undignified way when he realized that the ground was much closer now and both wind and rain seemed to abate, too – they had a chance to make it down safely, he thought, and instantly his mind began plotting again, thinking up strategies and contingency plans to be put into action as soon as his feet touched the ground.

"Stop plotting, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth. "It's annoying."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, assessing the ground carefully, "it's all your fault. If you had believed me, we would have captured Moriarty and and the bomb would be defused by now."

Mycroft bit back a retort; instead, he asked carefully, "What about the phone? The data, the diary?"

"Not important," Sherlock brushed him off, "the data's safe. You'd have it by now, if you hadn't thwarted my plans."

"How can that be?"

"I copied the data, of course," Sherlock spat, "and sent it to you by _air mail_."

"But how?" Mycroft actually sounded dumbstruck. Sherlock made a mental note to relish it later. "I used a racing pigeon, of course, Mycroft. Do pay attention. I also planted a Trojan horse on the phone to track Moriarty. If I didn't have to lug you around-" he broke off abruptly, wracked by a coughing fit. He stopped their descent, giving his trembling muscles and burning lungs a break.

Mycroft shut his mouth, the question how the hell Sherlock had avoided Moriarty noticing his deception still tingling on his tongue. The straps of the harness bit painfully into his flesh and his legs and arms were so cold by now, he seemed to have lost all feeling in them. He wondered how much worse it had to be for Sherlock, and then there was this troubling cough … "You're ill," he finally realized. "Pneumonia."

"Brilliant deduction, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted scathingly. "That's what you get when you spend your time tied up in damp Russian basements with thugs pouring water down your throat."

Mycroft stopped the urge to reply _That's what you get when you don't sleep, don't eat and don't take care of yourself, _but it seemed rather inappropriate. He had, of course, noticed his brother's stomach problems, just like he had noticed his abhorrence to be touched. It was hardly his fault, for once.

Mycroft was busy formulating an unoffensive reply when they both noticed movement on the ground. He frowned. "What is going on?"

"Don't know," Sherlock growled, clearly not liking it. They both watched with growing concern: there were far too many cars and even more people, ant-sized and suspiciously organized, moving with purpose and apparently taking cover.

Sherlock sped up, almost running down now, and Mycroft kept his mouth shut, afraid that any sound coming out of it would be a mere squeak. He wasn't really scared of heights, but Sherlock's abseiling stunt lacked all safety measures – he hadn't planned on carrying his brother, and he himself did not bother with tedious and time-consuming precautions. Now, he simply abandoned all caution and Mycroft wondered how he had survived those three years, for this was clearly not the first time he was heading into danger regardless of the consequences.

However, a second later he knew why. Nothing, not even the ground madly rushing towards them, was as dangerous as their current position: a bullet whistled past him, ricocheting crazily on the glass.

"Damn it!" Mycroft yelled, jumping from the unexpected noise.

"Hold still!" Sherlock hissed, moving even faster.

Mycroft wondered where he took the strength from, but adrenaline apparently worked miracles.

"Who's shooting?" Sherlock bit out between strained gasps.

Mycroft looked down, trying not to shift his weight.

"Moriarty's men, I would say."

"Damn it!" Sherlock cursed, adding a few choice words he could only have picked up in Russia.

"Watch your language," Mycroft remarked mildly, "there's no need to be common."

The lack of an acid reply was deeply unsettling; it meant Sherlock was barely hanging on. Literally.

Another bullet. Even closer. His ears rang from the noise, and it seemed the shooter had only missed because Sherlock was descending faster than anticipated. Really, they were like sitting ducks – well, dangling ducks, but it was just a matter of time until they were hit.

At least, someone was trying to prevent it: there was shouting and running, sirens wailing and lights flashing – someone clearly tried to intercept the gunman, but bullets whistled past them yet again.

Mycroft braced himself mentally; he swore to himself he would not cry out when he was finally hit.

He had no plan in case Sherlock was hit.

They were close to the ground now; he fleetingly wondered how they would descend the remaining distance – the glass ended abruptly, falling away into nothingness – wasn't the building propped up on pillars on this side? Stupid architecture – and it seemed the rope was not long enough – how could it not be? Annoyed, Mycroft frowned, huffing slightly.

"I hadn't planned on going down the entire building!" Sherlock hissed angrily, sensing his brother's irritation. "Rope is heavy and cumbersome, one does not carry more than necessary!"

"Certainly," Mycroft hurried to say, "I did not mean to-aaaah!"

They were falling. Free falling – he saw the rope dancing away like a snake charmer's animal … unbelievably, the last bullet had cut right through it.

Oh Lord.

How he did it, Mycroft had no idea. But Sherlock somehow clung on to the glass, sliding down at a mad speed, breaking the fall every time they skidded over a joint gap. God, it must hurt.

Still, hitting the pavement would most likely end with broken legs, shattered ribs, possibly a fractured skull – dear God, his stomach dropped, everything became a blur of lights and noise – gunshots, some wild, some well-aimed, clearly a shootout –

He tucked in his chin, trying to avoid hitting the ground head-first, also trying to curl around Sherlock, in a mad attempt to protect his little brother. He wasn't thinking clearly, Mycroft mused …

Impact. Too soon and not as bad as feared – why? Was that the effect of the adrenaline?

He was smashed down face first, landing on Sherlock. His crazy brother had managed to twist around, taking the worst of the fall. Mycroft slammed into muscle and bone and coat and wet curls, crushing the warm body underneath.

Stunned, his ears roaring with white noise, he scrambled to his knees and unhooked himself from the harness. Oh – they were not on the ground! They had landed on the glass canopy projecting out from the building and covering the entrance; and it had undoubtedly saved their lives. The rope might actually have been long enough, it struck him. Not important. "Sherlock," he wheezed, bending over his brother and frantically searching for a pulse – there it was. He paid no attention to what was happening below, although the shouts and screeching tires were tell-tale enough: a mad flight was taking place. Not his problem right now; he needed to look after his brother, and thank God, the brilliant idiot was stirring.

Mycroft exhaled deeply. "Sherlock, how many more times do you intend to fall from a building?" he managed to drawl, but to his annoyance, he did not sound quite as admonishing as he had planned: his voice was trembling. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps until you succeed in killing yourself? Surely, there is no need – argh! What-!" He was yanked down violently, a hand closing around his throat, paralyzing him with shocking efficiency.

A bullet smashed into the glass behind him.

"Shut up and keep your head down," Sherlock growled, "unless you want to lose it!" He was abruptly released, and before he could even think of a tart reply, Sherlock was gone, silently creeping towards the edge of the glass canopy, dragging the rope with him.

And finally, Mycroft Holmes became aware of the drama unfolding at his feet.


	24. The Spider

**To Paularushing: we're pretty much in the middle of the story! **

**And to all my faithful reviewers: thank you for your encouragement! **

**Since it's the weekend and I don't really want to split this part, two short chapters and a longer one.**

* * *

**The Spider**

"MORIARTY!"

They all froze.

Greg Lestrade, peering over the door of his car, frantically signalled his officers to hold back, and they did. Sally Donovan scowled, but obeyed, too, and so did the members of the task force, although Lestrade was not in command: the scene in front of them had them stopping dead in their tracks.

Dr John Watson stood alone, gun in hand, facing Jim Moriarty. The Consulting Criminal, flanked by two of his armed bullies, had just emerged from the building, heading for a getaway car only a few feet away away from the brightly lit entrance.

All John Watson knew was that Moriarty was about to escape again, and he would not allow it.

James Moriarty stopped, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Dr Watson!" he called as if seeing a long lost acquaintance. "What a pleasure! Perfect timing, indeed. Are you here to see your friend die – _again_?"

Calmly, John replied, "I'm here to put a bullet in your head." His hands were perfectly steady, aiming the gun at a spot between Moriarty's eyes.

"Oh, that is …" Moriarty blinked, "funny. Because at least two guns are pointed at _your_ head. The moment you pull that trigger, your brains will be splattered all over this place." His eyes slid to the glass canopy and down to the glistening marble floor. "What a mess that will be."

"I don't care."

Something in the dangerously low voice made Moriarty pause. Raising his brows, he shoved his hands into his pockets, a bored look on his face. "So, what's keeping you?"

John's hands gripped the gun a little tighter, but his attention never wavered. "You have one chance, one chance only, to surrender. If you don't, I'll shoot you."

Moriarty pursed his lips. "You'll die. Your wife won't like that."

"She'll understand."

"No," Moriarty shook his head, "Sherlock would, but not your wife. She's your _sweet_ _Mary_, hoping for hearth and home and all those dull things," he rolled his eyes. "John."

John scoffed. "Mary's not sweet, she'd rip out your tongue, you bastard." He aimed carefully. "Do you surrender?"

"Do I look like it?" Moriarty shrugged.

"No," John snapped, and his finger began pulling the trigger.

"Stop!"

John froze, and all heads turned: a shadow descended from the canopy, crashing onto the lower glass roof covering the escalators, the fall barely broken by a rope.

John jumped. "Oh, ff-Sh – _Sherlock!_"

All gunmen swivelled towards the commotion, except John: he pulled the trigger. But the moment's hesitation was enough: Moriarty jerked to the side, and the bullet only grazed his head, leaving a stream of blood gushing down his throat.

John swore and threw himself to the ground to escape the defensive fire, just in time before all hell broke loose.

The noise was deafening, with bullets whistling past and glass virtually exploding all around him. John crawled behind one of the pillars carrying the canopy, desperately trying to get a clear view, but he could not move without getting into the line of fire. Shards of glass were raining down, and the noise made it impossible to detect Moriarty's position. He quickly peered round the pillar anyway, a bullet promptly smashing into it, sending a shower of razor sharp concrete pieces into his face.

He had seen one thing, though: Moriarty running down the escalators, Sherlock following hard on his heels, nearly getting shot in the face. And Moriarty was laughing, relishing the thrill of the chase, exclaiming, "Good! You're not boring now, Sherlock!"

And then they were gone.

"Damn it!" John yelled, slamming the pillar with his flat hand in frustration. Why had Sherlock done that? Moriarty would be dead now if Sherlock had not intervened. But then again, so would he. "Damn you!" he yelled, not sure whether he meant Moriarty or his former flatmate.

He had to chase them down. John took a deep breath and looked around – Moriarty's men were crouching behind pillars and plant tubs; there were not many of them left, one after another was being taken down by the task force and the police. He could see Lestrade crouching at the side of his car; but before he even dared to move, John saw a task force unit rushing towards him, ducking behind riot shields; they ran straight past him, stopped at the entrance and formed up. John watched, eyes widening in surprise, as they sent up men to the canopy. It was when they came down, however, that his mouth fell open in astonishment: shielded by a heavily armoured officer, none other than Mycroft Holmes was lowered to the ground, his hair slightly dishevelled and his clothes badly rumpled.

"Take cover, Sir, if you please!" the team leader demanded. However, after touching the ground, the first thing Mycroft Holmes did was smooth out his fine three-piece suit; then he ran a hand through his hair, flicking it back into place; and only then did he deign to take cover behind the protective wall of shields and bullet proof vests.

John gave a burst of hysterical laughter. He really did not know which of the Holmes brothers was more eccentric.

His laughter died when Mycroft, protected by the task force members, bore down on him. Greg Lestrade was rushing up too, and before he even realized it, he was swamped by special force members.

"John, you alright?" Lestrade grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah," John huffed, "but I'd be better if Moriarty were dead. Bastard."

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "Me too, but I wouldn't like _you_ being dead. That was bloody foolish, John!"

"Not as foolish as Sherlock," John sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Yeah, the sodding daredevil … have you seen him come down the side of the Shard?"

"No. What? _What?_" John blanched and turned to look up the sky-high glass monolith.

"Gentlemen," Mycroft interrupted them. "As far as I understand I have to thank you for alarming MI5 to this threat. The evacuation of this building and that of the surrounding area is in progress – although I doubt that it will be completed in time. Has the bomb been found?" He turned to the team leader of the unit.

"It's been located, Sir, but it cannot be accessed or defused easily."

"So the threat is immediate." Mycroft quickly glanced at his watch. "Remove these men from the scene," he ordered calmly. "Is my helicopter ready?"

"On its way, Sir."

"Stop! Hang on a minute, Mycroft." John dug his heels in. "You can't just remove us!"

"I certainly can," Mycroft cut him off. "And Sherlock would never forgive me, if you were to die in the blast, John."

"You have to find Moriarty!" John erupted in sudden rage. "You were wrong, Mycroft! Moriarty is alive and Sherlock is not mad! You were bloody wrong!"

"Indeed," Mycroft admitted softly. "And we will find Moriarty, as soon as we have picked up the signal Sherlock planted on his phone." He turned to the team leader of the task force and rattled off a staccato of orders, setting the machinery in motion. Once done, he swiftly turned back to John and Lestrade. The DI had a sceptical look on his face. "So, what now?"

"You will be taken to a safe place," Mycroft declared.

John rolled his eyes. "Heard that one before."

"It is still the best course of action. Now please excuse me," Mycroft declared, dismissing them.

"You can't just take us out of the game!" Lestrade protested, arms akimbo.

Mycroft stopped, turning back to them. "Surely, it is obvious? Moriarty's recklessness is unprecedented. He intends to detonate the bomb via remote control from a safe distance – almost certainly using his phone. We only have minutes left," he stated, his brows raised, "for I believe Moriarty's idea of a safe distance may fall short even of the military's."

"And he'll do it from a point where he can watch," John snapped. "Wouldn't want to miss the show."

"Riverside," Lestrade muttered. "Best place to watch."

"That is most likely," Mycroft agreed.

"Sir," a young man came running towards them, all excited. "We've picked up the signal!"

_Nerd_, John thought automatically, taking in the ill-fitting shirt, shoes, pullover and haphazardly thrown on bullet proof vest, incorrectly fastened.

"It's really clever, Sir, we had trouble picking it out at first because it's hidden among others – _really_ clever – the target won't identify it-"

"Thank you for the information," Mycroft cut the enthusiast short. "Just proceed. Where is the target heading?"

"Nowhere, Sir, that's the strange thing."

Mycroft frowned. "Explain."

"It was moving at first, but it's stopped. There could be a number of technical explanations-"

"For God's sake!" Lestrade grabbed the lanky technician by the shoulders, shaking him. "Where are they?!"

Jumping with fright, the young man blinked owlishly at him. "London Bridge."

"Thank you," Mycroft said calmly, turning to Lestrade and Watson. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to follow these gentlemen." He nodded at two men in dark suits who had appeared silently during their encounter with the technician. "They will escort you to my helicopter to ensure your safe transport out of the danger zone. I'll be with you shortly."

John looked at Greg; and Greg silently nodded. Then they both pretended to do as told.

A safe distance from Mycroft, John suddenly yelled, "Moriarty!" pointing madly behind him; the two men turned, and before they knew what was happening, John and Greg had absconded.


	25. Mind the Gap

**Mind the Gap**

John's lungs threatened to burst and his sore muscles screamed in protest, not used to the sudden exertion of running at full speed. His bruised ribs throbbed with each heartbeat, his throat was parched, and he felt his blood pulsate through the veins in his burning face, cold air and light drizzle barely offering relief.

Taking deep breaths despite the pain in his chest, he tried to concentrate on the sound of his feet slapping on the pavement to keep going. Silently, he cursed himself for having given up running, but his life with Mary had allowed him too much leisure time: there was no need to constantly keep fit, and they didn't do sports together.

He stopped short when he rounded the corner: London Bridge, illuminated in the dark, was one huge traffic jam. Red buses, black cabs, late commuters and early delivery vans all crowded the bridge. A motorbike was driving on the pedestrian way, being shouted at by cyclists who weren't supposed to be there either. John stopped for a moment, wheezing; he looked around and saw the flashing lights of the police cars behind him, and Lestrade, panting and close to collapsing, turning towards them. John was actually relieved – he didn't want Greg to keel over with exhaustion. But without Greg, he was on his own – the police could only move on foot, too, and they would be slow and cautious. John had other plans. He took out his gun and entered the bridge, jogging along at a soldier's pace, taking in his surroundings, watching out for a dark coat and armed men.

The men he found soon enough.

John stopped to take it all in.

My God, Sherlock must have scoffed at the banality of it all.

James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal and desperate to detonate a nuclear bomb buried deep inside the Shard, was stuck in a traffic jam. The spider's elaborate plans and intricate schemes could not have foreseen the big yellow building crane moving at a snail's pace, irritating rush hour drivers to boiling point, until one of the mad overtaking manoeuvres resulted in five cars crashing into the crane, the bridge, each other, and a bus, cutting down three lamp posts, causing a power failure, and general mayhem. Nothing and no one moved anymore, and that was why the phone signal was stuck. That's London for you.

John cautiously approached the centre of the chaos: people were standing around, gaping, some were injured, leaning against the bridge's granite wall, babbling with fright, a woman with a bleeding face was still sitting in her car, pressing tissues to the side of her head. The noise was deafening – cars honking, people crying, yelling at each other or talking into their phones. Neither police nor fire trucks had made it to the scene yet and John's doctor's instincts kicked in, urging him to help, but the soldier prevailed: he had to track down Moriarty and Sherlock. There seemed to be no life-threatening injuries – no one sitting on the floor, silent and unattended. It was always the quiet ones you had to watch, not those who wail.

He found the car soon enough – right behind those who had caused the accident, as far as he could tell. No one had noticed that the two dead men in it hat not been killed in the accident. The car was intact, apart from the shattered windscreen. One look through the open doors confirmed his suspicions: they had been executed. Bullet through the head. John cringed inwardly; Sherlock was efficient in everything he did, even in killing. The coldness of the act made him pause.

There was no sign of either Moriarty or Sherlock and he had no means to track the signal.

He had lost them. Again.

The image of the two executed men was disturbing. My God, what had happened in those three years to make Sherlock so cold and calculating? He never had been one to hesitate when confronting a criminal, and he wasted no sentiment on anyone, not even the victims of crimes, but this almost mechanical way of disposing of everyone along the way to get to Moriarty was … disconcerting.

John swallowed compulsively, remembering how he had accused Sherlock of being a machine. His last words to his friend at St. Bart's had haunted him in his nightmares more often then the fall itself. He bit back tears – stress, he told himself, his nerves were letting him down. He looked at his hand: no, it was not shaking. Not one bit.

If Sherlock had only talked to him. Then, and now.

He swallowed hard and walked over to the bridge's railing, trying to figure out where the two sworn enemies hellbent on destroying each other had gone. Clouds were racing along the night sky, bringing gusts of wind and more rain, rippling the surface of the black water under his feet and sending foaming waves against the pillars.

Sherlock had risked the Shard being blown to pieces to make a deal with Moriarty. He had risked thousands of lives for this bloody phone – or had he?

John frowned. Moriarty would have recognized any attempt to defuse the bomb. It was possible that Sherlock's proposition to make a deal had actually delayed the attack; and Sherlock was certainly aware of that. And why the hell had Mycroft been there? He only now understood what Greg had said – Sherlock had come down the side of the Shard – _outside_? Abseiling, it seemed, and apparently dragging his brother with him. Jesus Christ, what was he to make of that?

Had Sherlock saved his brother? He had certainly just saved him, John realized, by jumping down from the canopy and distracting Moriarty and his men. If Sherlock was so intent on killing Moriarty, then he should have waited for John to shoot him. But his friend would have died the next moment, shot by Moriarty's men.

It seemed his death was unacceptable, as Sherlock would put it. So, John was more important than Moriarty. Or would losing John mean losing Moriarty's game, since he was apparently considered a pawn in it?

He could not be sure.

He found it impossible to understand what was going on in Sherlock's mind, and after three years of separation, he was not sure whether he could still read him. Too many times Sherlock had manipulated, deceived, or outright abused him.

He no longer knew Sherlock. That was the ugly truth.

The realization hit him hard, sending a wave of nausea through him. John's stomach suddenly heaved with such violence that he doubled over. He barely managed to lean over the railing before he vomited, sweat pouring down his face. Exhaustion, he told himself and did not believe it for one second.

When he was done retching and shivering, he slowly straightened up and decided to do what was sensible: be a doctor and help the victims of the accident. The police were still not in sight, stuck at the end of the bridge.

He coughed and wiped his mouth and decided he was done with chasing criminals and madmen. It was now in the hands of Mycroft to find his brother and stop Moriarty. Ordinary John Watson was useless and could do nothing; he was only good as a doctor, so be it. And if the Shard did get blown up, he wouldn't get out of doctor mode for a long time, that was sure.

He looked at the Shard, illuminated from within, reaching into the sky like a gigantic crystal. Oh, the vanity of man. They'd be frantically trying to defuse the bomb now, knowing it might blow up in their faces. Madness, everything.

He looked at the river and the boats passing underneath the bridge. Oblivious, all of them. A freighter, a cabin cruiser, a big sightseeing boat, a party yacht – and plenty of police racing to the shore.

He turned around to set to work. And froze.

Gunshots.

He spun on his heel, facing the riverside.

And there they were.


	26. Riverside

**Riverside**

John was sprinting across the bridge, the riverside buildings sparkling in the dark and the gloriously illuminated Tower Bridge on his right. He had no eyes for them. Neither did he feel his lungs or legs or the rain hitting his face – all exhaustion was gone and his gaze was fixed on the two men facing each other at the end of the bridge: two shadows in a fighting stance, pointing guns at each other.

Vaguely, he became aware of people running towards him, screaming, fleeing from the armed men. A delivery driver in a brown overall jumped into his path, screaming, "They're shooting!" – he shoved him aside. Civilians, he thought.

It was an eerie scene: with several street lamps cut down, the remaining lights had gone out. Some of the abandoned cars had their headlights turned on and their doors open, the owners having fled in panic; the illuminated buildings on the riverside emanated a faint glow, but apart from that the bridge was shrouded in darkness.

Sherlock and Moriarty were facing each other at gunpoint, both standing close to the railing, only a few feet apart. Sherlock, holding the gun with both hands, had his back to John, coat tails flapping in the wind. Moriarty held a small revolver in his left, trained at Sherlock's head; in his right, he had his phone, the screen glowing blue in the dark. His thumb was hovering over it, ready to press the button.

John slowed down, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of his surroundings: helicopters, emergency lights, traffic noise, boat engines, waves crashing, the smell of water, petrol and oil, granite glistening in the rain; and the police still not in sight.

"Stop where you are!" Sherlock's voice startled him, but he obeyed instantly, coming to an abrupt halt.

"You have a gun, John?"

For the fraction of a second, he wondered how Sherlock knew who was approaching without even glancing over his shoulder, but he was Sherlock. Probably had memorized the sound of his feet, his breathing pattern, his entire physical motion.

"I do, Sherlock, and it's currently pointed at James Moriarty." He feared his voice might fail him, but it was surprisingly steady.

"Good."

"Dr Watson, welcome back to the game! Yet again," Moriarty flashed a predatory grin. "I'm seriously annoyed that you cost me a fine suit, though." The side of his face and his throat was blood-smeared from where John's bullet had grazed his skin, and his suit was covered in dark stains. He dropped the smile. "If you've given me a scar, I'll skin you alive. You know people survive _a long time_ if it's done properly." Every word rolled off his tongue with relish. "I'll nail your skin to the door of 221B and your raw flesh to the door of your new home. Think of what your wife's gonna say."

John swallowed, but Sherlock just drawled, "Oh, shut up."

"Make me," Moriarty hissed.

"I will." Sherlock's voice was deadly serious. "John, aim at his _hand_, the one with the phone. I'm aiming at his skull."

"What?" John's breathing suddenly sped up, and now he understood: they had reached stalemate.

Moriarty was ready to set off the bomb – all he needed to do was push the button on his phone. Even if Sherlock fired the gun and killed him, he still had enough time to detonate the bomb. All it took was one impulse from the brain to the hand, and that impulse would travel along the nerves down to the muscles, even as the brain that had given it was turning to a pulp. And of course Moriarty would shoot Sherlock simultaneously.

They would all end up dead. Unless he shot Moriarty in the hand, hoping he could make him drop the phone – thus preventing the explosion. But Sherlock would still die.

"John," Sherlock urged, gripping the gun even harder.

"STOP!" John bellowed. "No! This is not going to happen." John noticed how Sherlock's head made a tiny movement, surprised at his imperative voice. 'There. You're not the only one who knows how to give a command,' he thought. "Neither of you move."

"So, what now, Dr Watson?" Moriarty chuckled. "We're running out of time." The laughter abruptly stopped. "I'll blow up the Shard as soon as the police come within shooting distance. Or if you so much as make a move, both of you. Oh, and I will kill you, of course, Sherlock."

"I'll return the pleasure."

"You don't seem very keen on surviving." Moriarty raised his brows. "That takes so much fun out of the game."

"Your fault. You spoilt it."

Moriarty's face was expressionless. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock smirked. "That's the trouble when you destroy a man's life: he has nothing to lose."

"Oh!" Moriarty blinked, then grinned. "Oh, yes of course, Russia. How's your mind, by the way? And your senses? The headaches, the nausea, the sensitivity to touch, the flashbacks … I've heard your brother has made an appointment with the best PTSD specialist – only, you never showed up. Ah, but then I guess you were not happy with the lodgings." He chuckled. "Maybe you prefer to be in hell."

Sherlock smiled. "With you, certainly."

"I know, you promised," Moriarty said softly. "But then again … you would NOT make Dr Watson watch you die again. You know what it did to him last time." He shook his head, his face stretching into a concerned grimace.

Sherlock sighed with exaggeration. "You should know by now that I have inflicted every cruelty under the sun on poor Dr Watson."

"I'm here, you know," John grated, anger flaring up.

"Yes, and I want you to shoot his hand," Sherlock snapped.

"And he kills you. Nope."

"Collateral damage."

"Sorry, no way."

"John!"

"Shut up!"

Moriarty laughed. "God, this is precious! You two bickering over who's going to die! Jesus Christ, I love this!" He was serious in an instant. "Anyway. Enough now." Moriarty edged closer to the railing.

"You're not going to get away," Sherlock snarled. "Not alive. John, you _must_ shoot at his hand. I'm going to-"

"NO YOU'RE NOT!" John yelled at the top of his voice. "I'm done being shoved around by you!" He dropped his voice to a dangerous snarl. "We're going to play this according to my rules."

"There's a boat coming, John," Sherlock spat. "He wants to get away, don't you see!" And indeed, the roaring engine of a speed boat was drawing nearer.

"Oh-kay," John said slowly, his mind racing. He clenched his jaw and hoisted the gun a fraction. "Okay, my turn to make a deal. Mr Moriarty, how about this: you give me the phone, I'll let you get away, the Shard remains intact, no one dies tonight."

Moriarty's face remained completely impassive, but his eyes virtually bored into him.

Sherlock hissed. "John, you can't do that. You can't."

"Yes, I can and I will."

"No! I will ignore your deal." Sherlock's breaths came fast. "What if he has another means to detonate the bomb?"

John swallowed hard. He hadn't even thought of that. "I don't think so," he slowly said. "What for?" He could see Sherlock's muscles along the jawline working frantically, his mind spinning, trying to outmaneuver him.

John acted on instinct before the brilliant intellect found a way to ruin his plan: with one swift movement, John placed himself in front of Moriarty, blocking Sherlock's line of fire. He was standing between them now, protecting the criminal. His heart was beating so hard it threatened to burst, but he would not watch Sherlock die.

"John!" The shock and hurt in Sherlock's voice wrenched his guts – 'treason,' John thought, 'he considers this treason.' "Sorry, Sherlock," he whispered and knew his friend would neither understand nor forgive.

Moriarty gasped. "Oh my, this is beautiful! Dear me, Dr Watson, you really do love him." He shook his head, blinking in disbelief. "Ah, Johnny boy, before you feel the need to remind the world, we do know you're not actually _gay_." He chuckled. "As if the realm of human affection were divided in sexual preferences."

"Give me the phone," John calmly held out his hand, his gun still pointed at the criminal. "I will stick to my word."

"I know you will," Moriarty grinned. His eyes darted back and forth between him and Sherlock, assessing, calculating. "Oh well," Moriarty suddenly shrugged, "I'll just have to blow up something else, then. Maybe the Tower. Much more of a challenge: centuries old brick and stone." He held out the phone, his thumb still hovering over the screen, displaying a Shard-shaped icon ready to be activated. One touch, one touch alone was enough – John forced his breathing under control. "Careful with that, Dr Watson," Moriarty drawled as he lowered the electronic device into his palm. He didn't let go yet, but pointed his small revolver directly at John's temple. "Need an insurance against Sherlock," he whispered, "otherwise he'll shoot me."

"I'll shoot you anyway," Sherlock growled, grabbing the gun tighter.

"No you won't!" Moriarty sang out, hoisting himself up on the broad metal rail of the bridge. The speed boat underneath roared, moving into position. "And now, Sherlock, step away from the rail. Off you go! A few meters will do, but I want to get down to that boat without a bullet in my head. You can keep aiming the gun at me. It's kind of sexy, actually. But don't forget: my target is Dr Watson."

Sherlock remained entirely still; John realised that he displayed no emotions at all – normally, there would have been small sings of distress, a trembling muscle or a slight frown, but now his face seemed frozen. Then, abruptly, he moved a few steps back, his eyes never leaving Moriarty's.

"A bit further, pleeease," Moriarty sneered.

John slowly released his breath, almost painfully aware of the revolver pointed at his temple. His own gun, aimed at Moriarty, would do him little good if the Consulting Criminal decided to shoot. He felt as if he was in a snake pit, desperately trying to avoid the poison fangs of all the creatures slithering around his ankles.

"Good bye, Sherlock," Moriarty drawled. "See you later."

And then it went wrong.

For a moment, John thought his plan might work. He had the phone, and Moriarty was about to jump down to the boat; the hunt could wait for another day and no one would die tonight.

Just then, the police finally made it to the scene. And it did so in the form of Sally Donovan, running ahead of DI Lestrade and all other officers, because she was younger and fitter and much more eager, and far less cautious.

Her voice boomed, "Don't move! Everyone stay put or I'll shoot!"

"Shit," John groaned. He had to grant her that she made an impressive sight; and she was certainly no coward. But she was also an idiot. 'That's it,' he thought, 'Moriarty's going to blow my brains out. Sorry, Sherlock.'

But instead, the Consulting Criminal moved at lightening speed, knocking the gun out of John's hand and striking him with his revolver, nearly bashing in his head. A resounding crack echoed through his brain and lights exploded in front of his eyes, making him dizzy and half-blind. He felt the phone being ripped from his fingers, and he instinctively tried to cling to it, but his arm was wrenched back painfully, a fist slamming into his bruised ribs, sending a jolt of searing pain through his system. Wheezing, he doubled over, completely helpless and momentarily blinded by pain.

There was a gunshot. But no screaming; he felt nothing beyond the screeching orchestra of pain in his body, no impact, so he was not hit. Probably a warning shot by Donovan.

His legs gave away, yet, he was not falling – rather, Moriarty was propping him up, using him as a living shield, holding him in an iron grip that made his damaged ribs scream; the spidery fingers clawed into his throat, restricting his breath just short of choking him.

"If you so much as move, Sherlock, he'll die!"

John tried to regain some control, but the pain and noise in his head were paralyzing him, threatening to pull him into unconsciousness. Through the fog, he heard Sally Donovan yell, "Don't move! Don't bloody move, all of you!"

"The phone," John squeezed out. "He's got the phone." He didn't know who he was saying it to and he didn't care either since he was about to pass out. Just, someone needed to get that bloody phone …

Through the haze he heard Sherlock shout – an animalistic roar that finally betrayed the emotions within. From the edge of his vision he saw Sherlock charge, pouncing like a big cat. Moriarty fired his gun, but Sherlock neatly avoided the shot, instead delivering an impressive kick to the criminal's ribcage.

John was abruptly released, his ears ringing from the gunshot; he crumpled to the ground and scrambled away on all fours, gasping for air, but he received a vicious kick in the side, sending him sprawling to the flagstones.

Vaguely, he became aware of Sally Donovan moving around the two men, pointing her gun at them but not getting a clear shot with both of them twisting and turning. She was shouting, he realized, but he heard nothing beyond the screeching and hammering in his head, still deafened.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw the two men locked in a deadly struggle. Sherlock had abandoned his gun; he had gripped Moriarty's wrist with such force that the criminal's hand had turned as white as chalk, paralyzing his fingers. Still, Moriarty was holding on to the phone, the revolver in his other hand, fighting to point the barrel towards his opponent. Sherlock, using his height, forced Moriarty backwards, abruptly slamming him down onto the rail. The impact must have hurt, but Moriarty gave no sign of pain.

John tried to shout to Sally to get the phone, but the words came out hopelessly slurred, muscles and nerves failing him. Angry, he forced his stiff body to move, move and not slip into unconsciousness, crawling unsteadily towards the fight.

Sherlock, growling with rage, knocked Moriarty's upper body down on the railing with unrelenting force, and this time the criminal let go of the phone. It cluttered to the ground, front first. John lunged for it, closing his fingers around it, pulling it towards him; furious, Moriarty twisted and managed to point the revolver at him – at his head, his uplifted face.

He would always remember those dark eyes, with sheer malice in them; and then the scream, a murderous, gut-wrenching scream of desperation, barely human, wrenching itself from Sherlock's throat.

John was tempted to close his eyes as Moriarty pulled the trigger, knowing that he was too slow to avoid the bullet and that it would hit him in the face, smashing the bones and blowing his brains out. But he kept his eyes wide open.

He saw Sherlock shift, twisting in an inhuman effort, moving his body into the line of fire.

The shot rang out, bursting through the noise in his head; he saw Sherlock jerk and tense, and then go slack, his body slumping over Moriarty; far away, he heard Sally Donovan scream.

He couldn't think. Couldn't grasp it.

Shot. Sherlock was shot.

But Moriarty was not done yet: all predators claim their prey, and so did he.

Swinging his legs over the railing, he pulled the limp body with him, taking Sherlock down into the abyss of black water.


	27. Abyss

**To howlynn: Moriarty didn't detonate the bomb because it would probably have killed him (and everyone else on the bridge): the bomb is a nuclear warhead which causes a much larger blast than a conventional one, plus radiation. Originally I titled the story _Firestorm_ because nukes can actually cause one, though it's less likely to happen with modern buildings. Or … maybe I just didn't want to blow up the Shard! :-)**

**To all of you: I'm blushing to the tips of my ears with your reviews - you're spoiling me! Thank you so much!**

* * *

**Abyss**

John was over the rail before anyone could stop him. He heard Donovan and Lestrade shout his name, but he did not care. He knew that jumping into the river was mad and probably futile, but he had no choice: he had to try, even if he never found a trace of Sherlock.

The boat with Moriarty on it was speeding away, cutting through the waves recklessly and turning the water into a maelstrom. A helicopter was hovering overhead, searching the surface with a huge spotlight, but John doubted they even knew what had just happened.

He hit almost the exact spot where Sherlock had entered the water. The impact was brutal, sending jolts of pain through him; and then the waves closed around him, swallowing him up in their cold darkness. Suddenly, he became aware of his heavy clothes dragging him down and the current tugging at him - he stifled the panic ruthlessly and struggled out of his jacket, forcing himself to concentrate.

But it was too dark to see, and the waves kept crushing over his face, making him choke. He struck out blindly and dived down, finding nothing but water; he opened his eyes as wide as possible, ignoring the burning sensation, but everything was just a blur of black and blue and noise.

With a few powerful strokes he reached the surface again, gasping for air, frantically trying to orientate himself.

"John! Bloody hell!" Lestrade was leaning over the railing of the bridge, almost toppling down; a surprisingly large number of people had gathered next to him, all pointing and shouting excitedly.

"John! Hang on!" Lestrade had fetched one of the red life belts installed on the bridge, throwing it down to him. John ignored it; he was about to dive again when he suddenly saw the huge white circle of light dancing on the water, drawing nearer. "God, yes!" he wheezed and started to wave. "Here! Get over here!"

The helicopter moved the searchlight towards him, hovering straight above. As soon as John appeared in the glaring light, a lifeline came down, but John ignored it and instantly dived again.

Illuminated, the water was now a dull green – and there, only a few feet away, barely under water but carried away quickly by the current, was a dark shape, floating sluggishly like a big black ray.

John had never excelled at water sports, but this time he would have left any champion swimmer behind: he darted through the water and reached the drifting shape within seconds.

A coat.

And a body.

His arms closed around the limp figure and he struggled against the current and the heavy weight of the sodden wool, but he made it, breaking through the river's surface with his precious burden in his arms.

Spitting and coughing, he briefly wondered why Sherlock had not sunk to the ground – he must have been conscious for a while, fighting the undertow, John thought, pushing upwards with mighty strokes to stay afloat. He held Sherlock's head above the water and managed to adjust his grip, getting one hand free, frantically searching for a pulse.

"Please, God, please," he whispered as his stiff fingers scrambled along the throat. He tried to support the lolling head, leaning it against his shoulder, and finally, finally he found the pulse point; he cried out when he found the heart still beating. Barely, but still beating. Pressing the cold face against his own, he whispered, "Hang on, Sherlock, please hang on. I've got you, it's alright, I've got you … Jesus … I've got you …"

Later, John hardly remembered the rescue team picking them up – there were vague images of a man coming down from the helicopter, of being pulled up – the water underneath, the ground coming into view, being lowered on the riverside, a rescue team coming down … buildings in the background, harsh streetlights, ground glistening with rain, the limp body under his hands; sodden wool, damp curls, cold skin and blue lips; eyelids almost translucent with a grid of purple veins, his hands scrambling over every limb, tearing at the clothes, revealing the wound in the chest – just a small hole, reddish, skin slightly burnt, not much blood on the outside, so much more on the inside. All the damage hidden. Bleeding out. Lungs collapsing. Not breathing. The heart falling silent.

He had no memory of himself, of being soaking wet and cold – there was only fear and desperation and his voice at military pitch, yelling for an ambulance, shouting at the rescue team not to interfere, the horrible memory of St. Bart's cropping up, when his voice had been weak and he had been dragged away from Sherlock. Not this time. "I'm a doctor," he snapped angrily, and when the hands tugging at his shoulders became more insistent, he shoved them away, yelling, "I'm an army doctor, I bloody know what I'm doing! Get the fucking ambulance!" And finally they relented and knelt next to him and followed his commands as he worked on the limp body. Four people fighting for Sherlock's life, he thought, but what they really needed was an ambulance. He never noticed the shock blanket around his shoulders; when it got in the way, he shook it off without even realizing, doggedly continuing CPR.

There was very little he could do: get the water out of the lungs, force air into them instead, keep the heart beating. He worked on autopilot, not thinking, just reacting, doing what was necessary until the heart started beating again.

It did.

And finally the eyelids fluttered.

"Oh God, please, come on …" John muttered and kept working, stubbornly manhandling Sherlock back to life. Suddenly, the body jerked and the hands flew up as if trying to bat him away, but they fell down again, too weak to carry their own weight.

"Come on, come on," John huffed, his own heart leaping with fear and hope. "Sherlock! Don't give up! Come on, you can do this!" He slapped his face, none too gently, and finally, Sherlock moved, eyes opening briefly but rolling back in his head instantly. He winced, trying to draw breath, water bubbling in his chest; they rolled him on his side, and while John held his head, he coughed violently, liquid frothing at his lips.

"Spit it out, Sherlock, come on," John murmured, supporting him as best he could. "Good, here you go, that's it, spit it all out, come on, one more try, don't give up. Good."

Sherlock writhed, his body shaken by spasms of coughing, trying to get rid of the water in his lungs. He brought most of it up, but there was still an ugly gurgling sound when he drew the first unsteady breath. It led to another coughing fit and more desperate retching, but he finally managed a few wheezing breaths.

John held his head, gently rubbing his thumb along the jawline. "There you go. Well done." He couldn't help but smile when Sherlock made a feeble attempt to fend off the hands holding him – stubborn even in unconsciousness. "Sherlock," he tried to reassure him. "Calm down, you're doing fine. It's alright, we've got you. You're safe, it's alright."

It seemed to work – his hands eventually stilled. John felt for the pulse in the neck and it was there, but thready, quickly becoming erratic. There was still no ambulance in sight. He raised his brows questioningly at the rescue team leader: the man silently indicated _three_ _minutes_. John nodded and realised that he didn't even know the name of the young man who had pulled him out of the water. Not an easy thing to do in the dark. "Thanks for rescuing us," he said. "My name's John Watson, by the way."

The man smiled. "I'm Todd Barnes, pleased to meet you, Dr Watson. I know who you are … well, now, at least. I read your blog."

John thought what a crazy world it was.

"Hope you'll write a lot more entries," Barnes added.

"I hope so too," John replied wryly, bending over Sherlock again.

His breaths were suddenly faltering. John gently nudged his shoulder, urging him quietly, "Sherlock, keep breathing, please. I know it hurts, and I know it's boring, but come on, you can do this."

He did, John noticed, but it took all his strength and was obviously painful, for he flinched with every rasping breath, and it wrenched John's heart to see him suffering. 'Three minutes,' John told himself, 'just three minutes.'

"Hang on, Sherlock," he coaxed. "The ambulance is on the way. They'll be here in a moment. It'll be a lot easier for you then, I promise. They'll help you breathe and they'll give you something against the pain, and then you can rest. Just hang in there. Do it for me," he pleaded, swallowing hard, his voice suddenly catching in his throat. He knew Sherlock was not really awake, but he wanted him to understand that help was on the way.

"John!" Lestrade's voice was suddenly behind him. "Oh my God! Is he-?"

John looked up and saw the DI standing right behind him, panting with exertion from running, but his face was pale and sweaty, the veins throbbing at his temple – an unhealthy mixture.

"Greg, he's alive." John desperately tried to keep his voice calm, the last thing they needed was a DI with a heart attack.

Lestrade fell to his knees, one hand reaching out for the prone figure on the ground.

"Greg, any news of the ambulance?" John asked quietly.

Lestrade looked up. "They may have problems with the traffic. Another accident. Maybe can't come down to the bloody embankment."

"Can you go and make sure they get here as soon as possible? Not that they're stuck just a few meters away. If they can't be here in a few minutes, call Mycroft – tell him we need a helicopter."

"Sure," Lestrade jumped up. "Donovan and some officers are already out there diverting the traffic. I'll call Mycroft."

"Yeah. Thank you," John nodded and watched the DI jogging up to the street.

The three minutes were over. Still no ambulance.

"Dr Watson," Barnes said, his voice strained, and John noticed it at the same time: Sherlock's pulse was fading and his breaths were barely detectable now. "Okay, we'll move him on his back," John commanded. "CPR again. You know the drill."

By all rights, Sherlock should have stayed still.

But he didn't.


	28. Into Darkness

**Into Darkness**

Another assault. Really, was that necessary?

Dull. Sherlock tried to raise a brow in disdain but even this small movement seemed beyond him.

He wasn't able to defend himself anymore, his first two attempts had failed miserably, but he intended to put up a fight until his last breath, on principle.

Was that brave or ridiculous? More likely, just stubborn. Mycroft had once said he considered the signs of the zodiac complete nonsense, but if he were to believe in them, he was certain that Sherlock was born under the sign of a mule. A particularly stubborn mule.

Here we go – another punch to his aching chest, crunching the ribs, sending stabs of pain through his body, driving the air out of his lungs and leaving him gasping and retching. God, how undignified. He was probably writhing on the floor, in his own blood and vomit, and he knew they would push it much further, to breaking point, or rather _pissing_ point, as he termed it. Really, the only advantage of starving was that your digestive system was mostly inactive and subsequently couldn't get rid of too much either.

Damn it, his brain was so fuzzy. Where was he? He couldn't recall anything, his mind was excruciatingly slow and confused, was he still in Russia? Think!

Apart from the blood, he could taste the river nearby in the damp air, and he felt the bone-chilling cold seeping into him from the hard floor. His whole body was a vessel of agony, his chest in particular; and they were still busy pummeling him, so Russia, probably. Though, hadn't the basement smelled more vile? More likely, his senses were impaired.

He couldn't see, couldn't hear anything apart from the white noise in his head and the echo of John's voice, and he knew John was not really there but he heard his soothing voice anyway since he always called it up from memory to give him strength when they tortured him, or comfort when he lay bleeding in an alley or simply to help him sleep and keep him sane and remind him of home, home. John. So far away.

He couldn't last much longer. If Mycroft didn't find a way to get him out soon, very soon, then that was it. Maybe it was too late already, it felt … Oh God, this time they had gone too far. There was some major damage, he could feel it on an instinctive level – his nerves screaming in panic at his brain – malfunction! This was beyond the usual beating and suffocating, this wasn't just broken ribs and horrible pain: he was bleeding out and the blood was slowly seeping into his chest cavity, creeping into his lungs, squashing them like an overripe fruit.

He was choking on his own blood in a dreary Russian basement. God, how pathetic.

The only comfort was John's voice, vaguely present, but in his battered state he wasn't able to recall it clearly and it remained strangely distant and slurred. That annoyed him. He was dying, and they were still torturing him and effectively bereaving him of his last solace, and he wouldn't have it. Enough now.

He was going to fight back.

First: hands up – ball them into fists and punch anyone within reach.

Nothing happened.

Okay, try stabbing with your fingers, aiming at your enemy's eyes.

Not working.

Oh, for God's sake, at least do some clawing!

Nope.

Slap someone? A bit?

… Mmmaybe.

He had made some sort of movement, he was sure – at least going by the suddenly increased pain in his chest and the rather chilling experience of his heart first forgetting to beat, and then launching into completely uncoordinated contractions, sending a fresh jolt of panic through his body.

It's your last chance – try again. You don't want to die a bleeding lump of flesh in the dirt without having told them how much you despise them. Show them that they may be able to kill you, but they cannot break you.

That did it. He lashed out and hit home, knuckles grazing – what? A nose? Yes … he smiled. Probably just in his mind. But he tried again.

His hands were caught.

Well, that was to be expected, but he had made his point. He braced himself for the inevitable: the breaking of his wrists as punishment, the snapping of the delicate bones, the searing pain adding to the discordant orchestra of agony in his body.

Only, it didn't happen.

Instead, warm hands firmly clasped his own – to yank him off the ground and slam him into the wall? No … strong fingers and fleshy palms enfolded his hands, squeezing them lightly; a thumb rubbing over his knuckles – what was that? Oh, Lord, it was … it was soothing.

Whoever was there did not mean harm – or was this a particularly insidious way of luring him back to consciousness, only to torture him some more – YES! No, in fact.

Memory hit him.

This wasn't Russia. Moriarty … the bridge … John. John! He was safe, wasn't he? He had taken the bullet for him – that was the reason he was in such a sorry state, Moriarty had gunned him down, hitting him … in the chest, presumably. Small gun, short distance. Bad. And the slurred voice his sluggish brain hadn't been able to decipher was really John's. John's voice, for real, not a memory.

Oh. That meant John was here, and those were his hands – yes, they were, strong, but less calloused than before, the fingers a bit leaner, like his whole body … stop: that's not important right now. You do understand, don't you? You're dying, this injury is most likely fatal – and you can't do that to John, you must at least hold out as long as he is with you. Remember, you left on bad terms – you must make it clear to him that he's … he's … what do I have to make clear? God, think! He's … vital … only friend … kept me alive. He's my heart. My heart. You must know you're my heart, John. But how can I tell you, I can't speak, can't see, transport's failing …

Acknowledge him. For God's sake, do something!

His eyes flew open.

It took a while until he saw anything beyond a blur of shapes – and then it hit him all at once: agony.

Lower part of his body numb, the rest ablaze with pain, pulsing, throbbing – his chest crushed, shattered bones stabbing, shredded tissue and gushing blood squeezing the breath out of the lungs, lungs collapsing, a sick sound, gurgling, horrible, his heart merely quivering, jolts of pain, fear, noise, too many voices, can't understand, head sizzling with overload and panic, nausea, stomach heaving, NAUSEA!

"Quick! Roll him over!" "Careful, I'll hold his head …" "…bloody ambulance…" "… I've got you, Sherlock, don't fight it, it's okay."

No, it's not okay! Obviously not, I'm throwing up and my body is wrecked by spasms and I'm writhing like a goddamn earthworm, this is a disgrace …

"Sherlock, it's OK, just let it happen, it's alright."

Retching, again, why does it hurt so much and please can't this be a bit more dignified and I'm really scared, John, I really am, and please don't let go because I don't want to die alone.

I know you won't, you've never let me down.

Your hand on my face.

"There you go, that's better, try to relax a bit."

You're stroking my cheek, that feels surprisingly nice, John. Please, turn me over, I don't want to pass out staring at the bloody flagstones, I want to see your face, please – why am I retching again and where does all this liquid come from if there's nothing in my stomach? Oh, it's blood. Blood.

"No, don't look, Sherlock, it's okay, it's actually good that you're getting rid of the blood, it'll make breathing easier. Try to take a deep breath, can you do that for me?"

I'll try, John, but there's too much liquid in my lungs, you know that, you're a doctor, you're just trying to make it less terrible for me, I know, and I can feel your hands on my face and it's wonderful and it doesn't hurt, but breathing does, it feels like sucking in acid, but not breathing is worse because the lack of oxygen sets off the mechanisms of panic, an instinctive reaction and a sensible precaution, but knowing doesn't help and it's very scary and I'm so scared it's a shame, I'm sorry -

"Sherlock, stay with me, keep breathing. Help is on the way, just hang on, you're gonna be okay."

Your voice, it's so calm, so reassuring, how do you do that? I know you're scared too, we're scared of the same thing, but I can't fend it off any longer, the darkness is creeping up again … please let me see your face, John.

"Sherlock, look."

Oh, you're moving, you're cradling my head, that's nice, I'll sleep …

"No, Sherlock, keep your eyes open and keep breathing. Look, right over there, across the river, is the London Bridge Hospital. The ambulance is almost here. You'll be over there in no time, just hang in there, do you hear me? Yeah? Okay, good, I know it hurts, come on – no, no, don't close your eyes, look at me, look at me!"

Your fingers dig into my skin, not too hard but insistent … Oh, finally! You're bending over me! I can see you, I can see all your wrinkles, your greying hair – why is it all wet? And why can't I tell which colour your eyes are? You're looking very focused, almost strict, that's the soldier's face, not the doctor's … but I can see the worry lines – no, don't move out of sight! John! Oh, wait, I'll get you back. I know how.

"No, stay with me, you can't sleep just yet, Sherlock!"

Worked, almost.

"You have to stay awake, come on, you can do this."

Ha, you can shake my shoulder as long as you like, I want to see your face, John. This is not good enough.

"Sherlock, listen to me, you have to focus on breathing. I know you're in a great deal of pain, but – hey, are you with me?"

I am, John, you can stop slapping my face, and now I can see you again, and it's good. This was the last prank I played, I promise.

"Sherlock, breathe with me, come on. Slowly, Sherlock, slowly, not so fast, try to make your breaths a bit slower and deeper, do it with me, come on –"

I'm sorry, John, I can't breathe anymore – lungs are failing. I'm gasping for air like a fish out of water and coughing feels as if someone's hacking into my chest with an axe. It's terrible John, I find myself wishing it was over, it's not only the agony and panic, I can feel my mind disintegrate … incoherent … failing … oh God, it hurts, it hurts – what's that disturbing sound? Lord, am I _whining_? Really? I'm going to die of embarrassment … and why are my eyes wet? Please tell me I'm not crying, have I no control over anything?

But that's dying for your, isn't it, you lose it all, everything becomes erratic and pointless and then dissolves …

"Shh, it's okay, calm down. I've got you."

You're holding my face in your hands and your voice is such a comfort – I can't understand your words anymore, John, too much noise in my head, I'm sorry – what's this?

Oh Lord, this is bad, no air, can't breathe, something's breaking inside me – John, I'm afraid, it really hurts now, JohnJohnJohn –

"I'm here, Sherlock, don't try to speak, you need to save your strength, please, stay with me …"

I want to John. I've never wanted anything else, but I cannot. Please don't hold it against me, but it hurts too much now and I am so exhausted, I don't want to fight anymore, I've been doing nothing else those last years. I'm tired. It's easier to let the darkness take me. It's a relief, actually. Just let me look at your face one more time. I want this to be the last image in my mind. Your face …

Thank you. The rest is just slipping away.

"Sherlock!"

It's dark now, John.

I failed you again.

I'm sorry.

Sorry.


	29. Consequences

**… still blushing from the tip of my nose to the end of my toes! Thank you for all the positive feedback.**

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**Consequences**

John closed his eyes, waiting for the bloody MRI scanner to finish its job. This was a complete waste of time – ordering a CT just because he had had a bit of a breakdown when they had dragged him away from Sherlock. He did have a slight concussion, but nothing more. Moriarty had known where to hit hardest when lashing out with his gun. The vomiting, the momentary blackout and the subsequent shock and disorientation were due to extreme stress, not a severe injury.

But that's private medical care for you – no waiting and flashing all the guns they had. Waste of time. Too much wasted time everywhere. It had taken the ambulance another endless minute to arrive while he knelt, cradling Sherlock's head in his hands, watching helplessly as he suffered the agony of choking, blood frothing at his lips and eyes so full of pain and fear it broke John's heart.

And when help finally arrived, there was nothing he could do, only watch while the medical crew worked on him, ruthlessly shoving the tube down his throat – quick intubation was vital, but sedation took time and Sherlock hadn't been completely unconscious, so he struggled against the violent procedure, his back arching, hands twitching, nearly kicking one of the paramedics in the groin.

John almost chuckled. Sherlock had fought all along the way: lashed out even in half-consciousness, hitting poor Barnes' nose, sending the leader of the rescue team tumbling backwards.

The stillness of sedation had frightened John far more: seeing Sherlock on the stretcher, unmoving, almost buried under equipment and blankets; he knew it simply meant the situation was under control – so far, but it seemed like an eerie premonition of what might lie ahead. Sherlock would need his fighting spirit more than ever.

The table was finally moving out of the MRI scanner.

"Dr Watson, we're done now, you can get up in a moment," the nurse informed him. "Just take it easy, you might be a bit dizzy."

"No, I'm fine, thank you," John answered automatically.

"No, you're not," she said with a smile. "You look more than a bit peaky. Do you need a sick bowl?"

"No, really not, thank you. It's okay. I'm okay."

She gave him a long look, handing him a bundle of blue scrubs. "The doctor will be with you in a moment to discuss the images, and if no further treatment is required you'll be taken to your room. I've been told that someone will deliver an overnight bag with your things so that you can put on some proper clothing."

"That's great, thank you. But scrubs are actually fine with me. I'm just glad to get out of this," he smiled wryly, plucking at the hospital gown.

She chuckled, "I bet." No one liked hospital gowns.

"Um, any news yet?" He looked at her, searching her face carefully. They were all so friendly here, it made him uncomfortable. Better a grumpy old head nurse who told him the truth.

"No, Dr Watson, I'd know instantly," she tapped the small phone in her pocket. "Mr Holmes is still in surgery. All the nurses taking care of you have orders to inform you of any development immediately. Someone was adamant about this."

John did not have to think twice who that someone was.

"Now, we'll get you sorted and then you can rest in your room. I will check on you regularly, so let me know if you need anything. Ah, here's Dr Jones to see you."

The images showed no bleeding and no swelling, he had, as predicted, a concussion, though it wasn't quite as slight as he had thought. His vitals were a bit off, too, but you don't take a dive in the Thames every day, dragging up your best friend.

His room was as posh as the whole hospital: cream-coloured walls and floors, glass doors, wooden surfaces, and a bathroom that might as well have been in a hotel suite. Even the bed was soft and broad and laden with luxurious pillows and blankets. Still, he would have been more comfortable in an army bunk – the unfamiliarity of his surroundings added to his sense of dissociation from reality. The events of the last days seemed like a nightmare, without the hope of waking up soon. And now all he could do was wait. Wait, with two security guards outside his door and an unknown number distributed in and around the hospital – mind you, Moriarty was still out there.

He checked his phone – no news from Mary or Mycroft; Lestrade had called five times, though he certainly knew that John was undergoing treatment himself. Probably just to let him know he cared. When he was about to call back, he received a message. He almost dropped the phone, startled by the noise.

_Mary informed. Bomb defused. MH_

John raised his brows – the eloquent Mycroft Holmes had to be in a real hurry if he resorted to text messages in telegraphic style. He quickly typed back:

_Please make sure Mary's safe. Don't bring her here. Worried about Moriarty and the bomb. JW_

Even a defused bomb was a threat, he knew, but he was more worried that Moriarty might attempt to attack them again; and no matter how much security Mycroft set up, getting into a hospital was so much easier than breaking into the facilities of the secret service.

He received an answer almost immediately.

_Mary is safe. Mrs H and Lestrade under protection. Bomb being removed right now. MH _

Well, at least the threat of the explosion was eliminated. Strangely, it did not touch him at all. He ought to feel relieved, so many lives saved, but it did not make the slightest difference to him – he felt oddly blank, as if he had spent all his emotions, and what little energy he had left was carefully preserved for Sherlock once he came out of surgery. _If_ he came out of surgery. Alive.

John sat down heavily in the chair. He sent a quick text to Lestrade, updating him that there was nothing to update on, and that he himself was fine.

He wasn't, of course. He briefly wondered whether Mrs Hudson knew what had happened, but he decided it was Mycroft's task to inform whoever he deemed necessary to inform.

He looked at the bed, soft and inviting, but it was a hospital bed nevertheless. He refused to lie down. He refused to pull over the sick bowl despite the excruciating headache and the nausea. He refused to acknowledge his own minor injuries as long as Sherlock was struggling to survive.

Though bruised ribs, concussion and hypothermia were not minor. Unless compared to a bullet wound in your chest.

The door opened and a nurse came in – Nurse Mills, he remembered. She was tall, blond, determined and apparently assigned to him, for she had been the one to settle him in. He briefly wondered what Sherlock would deduce about her – all he could see was cool professionalism and the artificial friendliness typical for hotel staff. He had no clue what the real person was like and no desire to find out. There had been a time when she would have been his type, but that was before Mary and before the great catastrophe that had brought him here.

"Dr Watson, you absolutely need to rest – you know as well as I do how important this is when you have a concussion. I can give you something to help you sleep, if you can't find rest. And no, before you ask, Mr Holmes is still in surgery. I have just called downstairs and enquired, the minute before I walked in here, knowing you would ask. He's stable, now."

John watched her closely as she went through the procedure of the check-up, making sure the concussion wasn't turning into something more serious.

"But he wasn't – am I right?" he asked quietly.

She hesitated. He had noticed that slight hesitation before, and that had made him jump to the conclusion.

"He's doing fine now, Dr Watson," she assured him. "He'll be out of surgery soon enough."

"He crashed." He had no doubt now. "On the table."

"Only once, and they managed to bring him back very quickly."

John just nodded. There was nothing more to say; cardiac arrest always meant that chances of survival dropped significantly. Complications were inevitable; consequences, too. Such as brain damage. Even if they brought him back very quickly.

He decided to take the bed anyway. He felt too shattered.


	30. Stubborn and Silent

**Stubborn and Silent**

Dr Sheffield beamed at him. "So, taken all together, he's doing surprisingly well."

Certainly true, John thought darkly, if you're dealing with a collapsed lung, enormous blood loss and plenty of bone splinters, topped off with a dive in the Thames. "That's uh, good, good," he rasped, his voice breaking.

"He has an excellent constitution. Doing a lot of sports, is he?"

"Um, kind of …" John trailed off and wondered whether climbing down buildings and hunting criminals could be called sports.

"Very well, then," Dr Sheffield took off his surgeon's cap. "You can see him as soon as he's settled in. His primary nurse will assist you with anything you need and your medical advice is welcome at any time. Mycroft Holmes was very explicit – we know each other, you see, we're in the same club." He smiled benignly.

"Oh," John nodded, his brain vacant, stuck on the image of Sherlock being wheeled out of surgery. He had caught a glimpse of him, or rather of the stretcher surrounded by the medical team and dozens of bags, lines, tubes and monitors.

They were standing outside the operating theatre, and Dr Sheffield was still in his scrubs – with Sherlock's blood on them, John noted with a lump in his throat. He was sure that the surgeon normally briefed relatives in an immaculate white coat in his undoubtedly impressive office and not in a busy corridor in the butcher's clothes that were the trademark of their profession.

"Alright, Dr Watson, I'll leave you to it, Nurse Mills will accompany you." He made to leave, but John stopped him. "Dr Sheffield." John cleared his throat, unsure how to phrase his request.

"Yes, is there anything else?" The surgeon stopped, mildly surprised.

"Yes, in fact," John looked him in the eyes. "Um, I'm a surgeon myself, army doctor, in fact, so I know … the talk we give to relatives and, um, the things we don't say."

Dr Sheffield watched him with sudden interest. "I did not omit anything related to the surgery, Dr Watson. You can read the report, if you want to."

"That's not what I mean." John took a deep breath. "There's something you're not telling me."

Dr Sheffield blinked in unconcealed surprise, but remained silent.

"Please tell me." John's mouth was set in a firm line.

Dr Sheffield straightened almost imperceptibly. "Very well, Dr Watson. I obviously underestimated your observational skills."

'I'd love to hear that from Sherlock,' John thought.

Dr Sheffield sighed. "It turned out Mr Holmes has pneumonia."

"_What?_"

"Pneumonia."

John blinked in shock. Pneumonia. How …?

"We're waiting for the lab results to see what exactly we're dealing with, but-"

"I understand, thank you," John said in a dull voice. Then a thought struck him. "Have you received his medical records or the report of … uh, his latest examination? Do you know what happened to him in the last – I don't know – weeks?" John bit his lip. Somehow, he didn't want to say, _do_ _you know he was tortured and he's got a drug problem?_

"No," Dr Sheffield shook his head. "We have not received any records, but Mycroft Holmes has informed me about what to expect. We're aware of the implications, Dr Watson – particularly with regard to substance abuse, and we will of course take it into consideration regarding medication and treatment."

"Um, okay," John said slowly.

Dr Sheffield nodded and made to go, but stopped again. "Dr Watson – I would not give up hope. By all rights, Mr Holmes should be dead, but he's survived against all odds. To be honest, I have never seen anyone hang on so stubbornly."

John swallowed hard, biting back sudden tears. "Yeah, that's him."

The surgeon nodded and left.

John pondered what he had said: no medical records. Why? He would have expected Mycroft to pass on any relevant information and surely, Sherlock must have been examined immediately after being rescued – he had been tortured, for God's sake, someone must have taken care of him?

Frowning, he fished out his phone and dialled Mycroft's number. It took only half a ring for Sherlock's brother to take the call.

"Yes, John, what is it?"

John listened for a note of concern in the voice, but there was none. He cleared his throat. "It's just – I've just talked to Dr Sheffield and he seems to have no medical records on Sherlock. I mean, Sherlock must have received medical care when your people got him out – I think the hospital should have all the information available, particularly on the development and possible cause of the pneumonia. Maybe you could make sure-"

"John, they have not received any records because there are none."

"What?" John blinked in confusion. "What do you mean, there are none? You said he was tortured, he must have been-"

"Sherlock refused to be examined."

"He – what? But-"

"I told you, John, he refused to be touched."

"Yeah, but -" John struggled with his own confusion. "I mean, I know he didn't let anyone touch him, after that – thing at Battersea, when he fell, but," he gasped for air. "I thought you had him rescued from some Russian dungeon or whatever? I thought - I mean, he must have been in a bad way, _someone_ must have looked him over!"

"Superficially, yes. As soon as was awake, however, he refused to be touched."

"You mean, " John sank down on a chair, "he had no proper examination at all? All that time since-" he swallowed, adding weakly, "Russia?"

Mycroft sighed. "He didn't allow _you_ to touch him – what makes you think he would have tolerated a stranger?"

John opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out. He was at a loss.

Mycroft sighed again – twice in as many minutes, John noted belatedly. He was concerned, then. "John, Dr Sheffield has all the necessary information and my brother is in excellent hands."

John said lamely, "OK."

"Get some rest, John," Mycroft advised him, "there is no point in you wearing yourself out." He ended the call.

John sat dumbfounded for several minutes. Somehow, he had imagined Mycroft's men to have dragged Sherlock from that basement unconscious, probably taking him to a helicopter. There, at the latest, an army doctor would have examined him, attending to his injuries. It seemed Sherlock had resisted even then - hadn't accepted help, hadn't allowed an examination and subsequent treatment that could have stopped the pneumonia in its early stages. And he hadn't come to him for help. Somehow, that was the most devastating realisation.

Pneumonia. It was one of the most feared complications in patients that required assistance with breathing. And Sherlock had managed to contract it even before he ended up in the ICU. Great. He must have been developing it for a while – and there was no way he hadn't noticed it, that great over-perceptive idiot. Sherlock hated hospitals beyond all measure, but he was no fool when it came to serious injuries or illnesses – he knew when not to ignore a problem. Therefore, he had wilfully ignored the pneumonia. Why?

Moriarty's words suddenly struck him: _You don't seem very keen on surviving._

_Suicidal_, Mycroft had said.

Damn them all.

He suddenly noticed Nurse Mills bearing down on him. She looked like she wasn't going to let him out of sight another second – afraid I freak out, he thought. He followed her numbly, shaking his head at all her requests to go back to his room.

They reached the elevators and John pressed the button for the ICU.

"Dr Watson …" Nurse Mills looked at him pleadingly. "Dr Watson, please, you need rest and there's nothing-"

"No."

"He's unconscious," she protested softly. "He won't know you're there."

"I don't care."

"Dr Watson, you know the procedure – he's sedated and we won't even try to wake him up during the next days-"

"Take me to him. Now." It was said in his quiet but steely military voice, and his posture spoke for itself. Nurse Mills looked at him, then just nodded. Apparently, she knew when a cause was lost.

She accompanied him to the Intensive Care Unit, introduced him to the personnel, explained the layout of the unit and where he would find everything, and finally showed him where to change into scrubs.

After the familiar cleansing and disinfection procedure, John found himself in the middle of a gleaming white corridor, the equally white nurses' desk behind him, and a pair of wide glass doors in front of him. Behind that door, clearly visible through the pristine glass, was an ICU bed, surrounded by a stunning amount of state-of-the-art equipment and a nurse checking the monitors.

It was surreal; compared to an average NHS hospital, the place looked like a spaceship – all glossy surfaces, stainless steel, glass and diffuse light, the only dash of colour the cobalt blue of the nurses' scrubs. Everyone seemed to move with efficiency yet without hurry, radiating competence and professional friendliness. John hated it. He missed the battlefield atmosphere of Afghanistan and the bustle of crowded London hospitals.

But what he hated far more was the fact that he was close to a panic attack. He knew exactly what to expect in that room – for God's sake, he was an army surgeon, he had regularly sent people from his operating table to the ICU. Yet, it was Sherlock in there, in that bed, buried so deeply under tubes and lines and bandages that he was not even visible from here.

John took a deep breath, trying to force his anxious mind to calm down; it didn't help much, his heart was racing and he still felt so giddy that he needed to steady himself against the doorframe.

Sherlock was in there. Shot, barely alive. Sherlock, who had returned from the dead – only to die again? It was all a bit too much, John admitted, his knees almost buckling under his own weight. First, the thrill of his friend coming back, then his cold behaviour, the clash over the track marks on his arms … and then Moriarty emerging with a threat more horrible than anything he could have imagined.

John hung his head for a moment, gathering strength. It wasn't over; in fact, it had barely begun, and he could not get rid of the image of Sherlock fighting to breathe, slowly drowning in his own blood, eyes wide and desperate, clinging to him for help –

He stopped his memories from spinning out of control: the nurse attending to Sherlock was walking towards him.

He automatically straightened and braced himself. She pulled the glass doors open and smiled kindly at him. "Dr Watson?"

"Yes, that's me." John cleared his throat, annoyed that his voice sounded so weak.

"I'm Nurse June, your friend's principal nurse," she introduced herself. She was a wiry blond girl, steel blue eyes searching his face, trying to assess him. Far too young, John thought, she looked like a teenager, how was she supposed to handle Sherlock?

"Don't worry, I look younger than I am, and I am a very experienced nurse," she declared with a grin, but without malice. "I'll take good care of Mr Holmes."

"Yes, of course," John coughed, horrified that his thoughts had been so transparent. "Sorry."

"You're welcome to stay here. Your friend's stable now and we're keeping him sedated, so there won't be much change. I suppose I don't have to explain to you what all the machines are for?"

"No, no, certainly not." John pulled himself together and entered the room, cautiously approaching the bed. It was the only bed in here, although the room was large enough for two.

What struck him instantly was the lack of noise – there was of course the hiss of the ventilator and the beeping of the machines in regular intervals, but the sounds were rather muted, and the usual clanging and banging inevitable on a large ward with patients just separated by flimsy curtains was completely absent.

"It's, um, good that it's rather silent in here," John said, his voice still strained. "Sherlock's extremely sensitive to noise."

"Yes, we've taken extra care with that," she confirmed. "The noise in ICUs can be a real problem, with patients not getting rest and being confused, not knowing what's going on around them and not having their own room. We can't avoid it entirely, of course, but we're trying to be as quiet as possible, particularly during treatment. And we explain everything what we do to the patient, even if they are unconscious – you never know how much they notice."

"Yeah," John sighed, "especially with this one. He's hypersensitive."

Nurse June watched him carefully. "So I've been told."

"And what else have you been told?" John asked quietly, taking up a military stance.

Nurse June's eyes crinkled with amusement. "All I need to know. And that you're here to protect him, that you're likely to refuse to leave the room which is why we're moving a bed in here for you, and that I'm to follow your medical advice, should you object to anything the doctor orders."

"Uh," John blinked in surprise. "Okay, good. That's good … good." Mycroft's doing, undoubtedly.

"I'm finished here for the moment," she said, "so unless you want me to stay, I'll leave you alone with him."

"Yeah, that's fine," John nodded.

"I'll be checking on him regularly of course, but don't worry, he's being closely monitored from the nurses' station and by myself." She tapped a device in her pocket that looked like a phone. "We'll know instantly if there's any change."

"Okay." John looked around, taking in the high-tech equipment and the glass walls, making everyone and everything transparent. He felt a bit as if he had landed in an aquarium. "Listen," he called, halting the nurse in her steps. "I didn't mean to question your professionalism, I'm just … I guess I'm just very worried."

"I know, Dr Watson," she smiled. "It's okay."

"Right," John muttered as the doors swung close behind her.

He took another deep breath. Swallowed. Dared not approach. Let his eyes travel over the machinery instead, taking in every read out – the ECG, recording the activity of the heart; blood pressure measured directly from an artery line, body temperature, breathing pattern, oxygen and CO2 levels; the infusion system, a whole stack of pumps introducing medication into the blood stream; the Foley bag at the side of the bed, proof that the kidneys were working; the chest tube, draining air and fluid from the lungs and allowing the collapsed one to begin re-expanding; the ventilator, white and blue tubes leading towards the machine, the pulmonary function displayed on a monitor – Jesus, it was good to see the lungs working, even if their function was impaired. Breathing was definitely not boring now.

He held his own breath when he stepped closer.

He knew what to expect. Knew it. Intubated patient, eyes closed, face slack, skin pallid, tube and tape hiding the characteristic mouth, curls brushed back, looking all wrong. A myriad of lines and tubes connecting the body to the machines, blanket drawn up to the chest, the wound dressing partly visible; shoulders surprisingly well-muscled, bruised arms, track marks.

He looked nothing like Sherlock, John mused. Of course, all coma patients resembled wax figures, lacking all that characterised them as a person when awake. But in Sherlock's case it seemed far more extreme – with Sherlock's energy and arrogance gone, what was left was disturbingly ordinary and … frail.

John hung his head and took a deep breath, seriously afraid to sink to his knees. Humming silently, he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples until he felt steady on his feet again.

"Sherlock," he rasped, "you've absolutely pushed it to the limit. Really. I mean, usually people have to watch their loved ones die only once. Which is horrible anyway. So, don't do that to me again. I just can't take it, okay? Um," he looked around, uncertain what to do. "Just so that you know, I'll stay here with you, I'm not going anywhere until you're out of the woods, and … yeah, I'm grateful you saved my life but if that means losing yours, it's not worth it." Driven by a sudden impulse, he grabbed the limp hand, almost dislocating the pulse oximeter. The machine complained instantly. "Oh, sorry, can't have that," he mumbled, quickly fixing it again, but then he let go of the hand, suddenly remembering Sherlock's aversion to touch.

"No," he huffed and gently picked up the hand again, squeezing it lightly. "Listen, Sherlock, you have to pull through this or I will never, ever be happy again, in my entire life. There. And, oh, if you hate being touched, that's just bad luck, because I will hold your hand and I will touch your face because it gives _me _comfort, and if you hate that you will simply have to wake up and tell me. Right. Um, that's settled then. Get better, okay? Then we can sort out this mess and get our lives back. Anyway, Moriarty is still out there and you cannot lose the game, can you? Seriously, Sherlock, dying would be losing, so that's not an option." He exhaled shakily, stroking a thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand. "Okay, then … I don't know how much you notice, but you being you, probably a lot more than an average patient."

He let his fingers trail over Sherlock's arm, studying each and every single one of the puncture marks. "Oh, you," he sighed, "you idiot. I can see now that the track marks are neither old nor new. So, part of the torture, right? And why didn't you just tell me? Was that your bloody stubbornness or did you seriously believe I would figure it out eventually? Tell me when you wake up, okay? Expect an earful about the whole coming back thing, Sherlock, we'll have to talk about this. I know how much you despise that, but we will TALK. Comes in handy that you're in a hospital bed, so you can't escape and can't tell me to shut up. Hah."

Sniffing, he bit back treacherous tears and stared at the ceiling until he felt a bit more in control of his emotions. "Right." He looked at Sherlock again, studying the face on the pillow – but what he saw frightened him.

Sherlock did not look asleep or relaxed – not even just lifeless; despite the sedation, he looked _pained. _Cheekbones too prominent, skin stretched tight over the skull, lines on the forehead and under the eyes, the bruise beneath his left eye starkly visible. He still could not figure out where that haemorrhage came from – not a punch to the face, clearly. At least the gash from the fall at Battersea was healing, but there was an unfamiliar scar, long healed and pale, beginning at the left temple and vanishing among the curls. John bent over him and traced it with his fingertips, realising that it ran almost to the back of the skull. "Jesus, that must have bled a lot," he muttered. "How did that happen? I don't even want to know how many more scars you're hiding under that blanket." He straightened and looked down at the still face. "You'll have to tell me, you know."

He looked around and discovered a chair in the corner; he pulled it over and sank into it, grateful that it wasn't the standard issue torture tool all hospitals seemed to have, but actually comfortable to sit in. He kept staring at Sherlock, and the image was just wrong. His chest was heaving, moved by the ventilator, but it did not make him seem alive. The brilliant mind was deeply hidden somewhere in the damaged shell, and the slackness of the body was entirely different from Sherlock reclining on the sofa, too lazy to lift a finger. He just looked weak – no, worse, paralysed. Trapped somewhere between life and death.

John let his head fall into his hands and groaned. "Oh God, how did we mess up like this …"

"No," he suddenly puffed and got to his feet. "They've done your hair all wrong, you'd hate that, you never wear it slicked back – it's funny, looks almost like they gelled it – really posh."

He felt a bit silly, but he still snaked his fingers through the curls, carefully tousling and shifting them back to where they belonged. "There, that looks a lot more like you, despite your hair being so short," he noted, satisfied when the curls settled into their usual position. "Though it looked quite smart that style, actually. Not that you don't always look smart, but combined with yours suits and your intellect, you'd look like someone straight off the cover of a magazine, sleek'n dapper. Jesus," he chuckled, "don't let Molly see that new look. She'd swoon. Straight onto you. But then, you wouldn't notice right now, would you?" His smile froze. "Well, I … I hope you feel better with your hair as it should be; I hope you even notice it. Or maybe not. I hope you're not annoyed with me messing around with your hair. Anyway, um, I hope you can just get some rest. Sorry, I'll stop babbling now. Just sleep, okay?" He swallowed around a lump in his throat. "Sleep. And get well."

Sherlock didn't look like it.

John settled down in his chair again and racked his brain how to make Sherlock more comfortable, but there was precious little he could do.

Then it struck him. Of course! Sherlock, sensitive to touch and scent.

Hurrying from the room, he took out his phone and called Mycroft.


	31. Sherlockian Contradictoriness

**As always: thank you for your reviews. I'm as happy as a plant louse on a spring leaf!  
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**Sherlockian Contradictoriness**

Mycroft Holmes was – to say the least – astounded by the doctor's request. Perhaps even irritated.

"John, the hospital assured me that Sherlock receives the best possible care, and they also made it very clear to me that he is deeply unconscious. By all accounts, his mind is shut down, allowing his body to recover. They tell me he is basically in a very deep and relaxing sleep."

"Come and see for yourself," John grated. "He doesn't look very relaxed. And of course they tell you that he's just asleep and dreaming happily. He's not. He's comatose and no one knows how much he understands. We're dealing with Sherlock, remember. Anyway, the few reports from people who came out of a coma and could actually remember anything are not very encouraging – ever heard of hospital delirium or trauma caused by an ICU stay?"

There was a pause and he could hear Mycroft shifting. "John, I would not dare to question your epertise as a doctor, but as far as I know these patients were at least partly conscious."

John bit back an angry comment. "Maybe. That's why they lived to tell, Mycroft. But you know perfectly well that we notice a lot of things subconsciously. Now think about what Sherlock might be perceiving: acrid smells, strange noises, unknown voices, intrusive procedures he would never tolerate when awake – to him it must be a violation, and he will be frightened, or at least confused. Are you at all aware of what _intensive care _means? "

"Aware enough to understand your point, John. No need to go into details. I will of course do as you request."

John suddenly felt as if he had overstepped a line. "Sorry. I'm just freaked out with worry."

"I know, John," Mycroft answered quietly, suddenly sounding weary. "Just stay with him – if you are correct, then you are his lifeline. And really, that is all he needs."

Before John could answer, Mycroft had hung up. Puzzled, he looked at the phone – was that Mycroft doing _sentiment_? Probably. What had the world come to … John shoved the phone back into the pocket of his shirt – a light blue cotton top that looked as if it had been washed a few times too many compared to the deep blue scrubs the staff was wearing around here. Somehow it fit. He felt faded and worn out, too.

When he entered Sherlock's room, he instantly checked on him – and again, he was struck by the harsh reality of Sherlock injured and comatose. It felt like an abomination and made him choke. "Sherlock," he muttered, turning away hurriedly, taking deep breaths to force back the tears. He really needed to rest, the headache was threatening to split his skull and his frayed nerves bore testimony to his exhaustion: he didn't weep easily, yet he found himself constantly wrestling down hysterical sobs like a bloody hormone-shaken fourteen-year-old with a heartache.

Only now did he notice the cot that had been brought in. It was placed alongside the glass wall, and to give him privacy, someone had drawn the shades on that side. The bed was narrow and easily fit into the room, but it looked comfortable enough – army beds were certainly less cozy. God, was he grateful for that. He sank down on it, his limbs heavy as lead.

"Ah, Dr Watson," Nurse June stuck her head through the doors. "You see, we've done as promised. I hope you get some rest now, I hear you got quite a nasty concussion and shouldn't be up at all."

"I'm fine," John smiled wearily, "and thanks for the bed. I'm sure I can sleep now, I'm just glad I'm not too far away."

"Alright. But you really should get at least some hours of proper sleep somewhere quiet. I'll be coming in every half hour to check on him," she nodded towards Sherlock. "The morning round is at 8 o'clock, then the doctors will take a look at him, and after that we start the usual routine – you know the drill, checking everything, changing bandages, personal hygiene, turning him in the bed – I'm afraid you won't find much rest."

John waved her off. "That's okay, really. I can sleep almost anywhere. Army, you know – I'm used to racket and sharing space with snorers."

She laughed. "Okay, I'll leave you to it then." She made to go, but he called her back and asked, "Do you know how long he'll be kept sedated?"

"I don't know, but we definitely won't wake him too soon. You can ask Dr Sheffield during the morning round. You could go home, you know-"

"No way," John smiled sadly, and she just quirked her mouth. "Thought as much. But he's thoroughly sedated, he won't come round accidentally."

"I know. I'll stay anyway."

John sat down on the bed, feeling every single bone in his body. His head was throbbing with a dull ache; his ribs, in turn, produced a sharp pain with every movement, and his remaining bones and joints ached and groaned as if a herd of cows had trampled all over him. There was only one good thing about his battered state: he was so exhausted that sleep overwhelmed him instantly, knocking him out for several hours.

He missed not only the morning round but the entire day – he was aware of people puttering about, murmuring, and checking on him, monitoring his concussion, but he was too exhausted to stay awake. He noted that they moved Sherlock on his side, and after a while on his back again, but the pale face remained still and drawn. Nothing changed, so he just sunk back into sleep.

Until the alarms went off.

John felt as if he had stuck his fingers into a socket; a whiplash of panic racing through him, he bolted straight out of bed and launched himself towards Sherlock. His mind was incessantly screaming "Oh God please no, no, no, please no!" while his eyes fixed on the monitors, frantically taking in the readings.

He couldn't make sense of them. There was no flatline, but the pulse was too fast – and then he understood.

Sherlock was waking up.

_Thoroughly sedated?_ John thought and couldn't quite explain it himself, putting it down to drug abuse and Sherlockian contradictoriness. Whatever the reason, the eyelids fluttered, the lips twitched and the muscles at the throat worked frantically to get rid of the tube. John felt his heart make a leap of joy and clench in fear at the same time – it was too early, Sherlock was too weak to breathe on his own but he wouldn't tolerate the tube either. Suddenly, his shoulders were heaving and he distorted his face into a grimace of anguish – and of course his hands flew straight to the tube to pull it out.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, peeling his fingers away. "No, Sherlock, no, don't-" He was shocked at the dexterity Sherlock mustered in his semi-conscious state: a moment later, and he would have ripped out the tube, tape, cuff and all. Putting his hands on either side of his friend's face, John called, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

As if in answer, Sherlock grasped his wrists with surprising force. His whole body suddenly bucked and twisted, rolling away from him, hands desperately clawing. "No, no, Sherlock, no, stay still, please!" Panic rising, he hit the alarm button, his eyes on the drainage tube, now dangerously squashed under Sherlock's writhing body. God, if he managed to dislocate it –

John gritted his teeth, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and forced him on his back. Pushing down with his entire weight and bringing his face next to Sherlock's, he quenched his own panic and spoke as quietly as he could. "Sherlock, listen. It's John, I'm here to help you. I need you to stay calm, please try to relax. I know you feel awful, but it's going to be all right in a moment. You're safe here, you're in a hospital, and you're intubated. Tube down your throat, did you get that?"

As if in answer, Sherlock made a choking sound, still desperate to cough up the foreign object stuck in his trachea.

"I know it feels dreadful, I'm sorry, Sherlock; you need the tube, you can't breathe on your own yet. Just relax and let the ventilator do it for you," John coaxed.

The fingers, now weak and clumsy, still fumbled around the tube – until John understood. He let go of Sherlock's face and grasped his hands instead, squeezing them gently. "It's all right, I'm here."

It was as if he had spoken a magic word: Sherlock stopped struggling, lying still except for the fluttering eyelids. John took a deep breath himself, all of a sudden feeling so giddy he had to steady himself against the bed. "Now what was all that fuss about, huh?" he chuckled, a warm wave of gladness washing over him. "Awake, are we? And up for a wrestling match," he murmured, stroking a thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand.

He heard the nurses rushing in, calling out in surprise, checking the machines, the catheters and, most importantly, the drainage tube. Nurse June bit her lips when she removed the wound dressing, but gave him a quiet thumbs up after a few moments. John sighed with infinite relief. Nothing damaged. Sherlock's eyes moved rapidly under his lids, but he did not open them, apparently still in distress. "It's all right, Sherlock, it's okay now," John murmured, gathering Sherlock's hands in his left and squeezing his shoulder with his right. "No need to worry, you're doing fine. Just hang in there, we'll give you something to sleep, so you won't feel the tube."

It seemed to work; he could feel Sherlock relax as the medication entered his system, and the distressed look slowly vanished. John exhaled with relief. "There you are, that's better. Just sleep." He looked at Nurse June, finding her smiling at him, and he cautiously smiled back, elation suddenly sweeping through him – Sherlock still had his fighting spirit, and he had woken up, even if it had been too early. But more importantly, he had recognised John's voice; and he had trusted him. Finally, he dared hope that all would be well.

They just needed time.


	32. Night falls

**Night falls**

When he entered the waiting room, Mycroft was leaning heavily on his umbrella, and the lines on his face were a lot deeper than John remembered. Part of his face was slightly swollen, although someone had done a magnificent job at covering the bruises. Still, looking at the immaculately clad man, once again the epitome of a British gentleman, he found it almost impossible to believe that he had been abducted and then dragged down the side of the Shard barely a day ago. What gave him away, however, were his eyes – they were as shrewd as ever, but they lacked their usual alertness, and there was no spite in them, just weariness.

"John," Mycroft greeted him. "I am sorry it took so long to organize what you asked for. But I had to retrieve the required items myself, obviously, and then everything had to be inspected and processed to approve their use in intensive care. I was delayed since I had to check Sherlock's bills and internet purchases to establish the details of his shopping habits three years ago."

John blinked in confusion, trying to grasp what Mycroft had said. Finally, it hit him. "You mean, you didn't know which shampoo he used?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched with annoyance. "No, John, I did not. I am not Sherlock; I do not habitually identify and catalogue shampoo, perfume and soap brands in case a corpse smells of them." Mycroft distorted his mouth. "I am familiar with the products common in my social class, but Sherlock did not use those, and beyond that I do not concern myself with such trivia. So, no, I do not know which toothpaste he favours or whether he uses a conditioner to tame those curls."

"He doesn't." John felt a sour taste rise in his throat, along with his temper. "Why did you not just ask me, then?"

Mycroft stiffened like a lantern post – it was a sight to behold: momentarily all movement ceased, including his face, even his eyes. Wrenching himself from the frozen state, he gave a small laugh. It sounded oddly distressed. "Would you have known?"

John glared at him. "I used to_ live_ with your brother, Mycroft. I know by what order he sorts his socks, which foods upset his stomach, and what triggers a migraine attack. Believe me, I bloody well know which products were on the shelf in the bathroom; I did most of the shopping for God's sake!"

"Ah," Mycroft just uttered, looking offended and chastised at the same time. "Well, then you can check whether I researched correctly." He handed him a dark blue quilted holdall.

John stared at him in anger a few more seconds, then took the bag and looked inside. It was all there – the fine bed linen, the grey woolen blanket with green and blue stripes, Sherlock's shaving kit, soap, toothpaste, and even his hair brush. And the red dressing gown, of course, though it would be a while before he had any use for it.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "I was not sure whether the woolen blanket from Sherlock's bed would endure the disinfection procedure, but it seems finest Scottish wool resists everything."

"What's that?" John picked up a bottle that looked like it didn't come from a shop.

"Body lotion," Mycroft explained, looking just a little bit uncomfortable.

John looked up in surprise. "Sherlock never bothered with anything beyond the necessary," John said. "I don't remember ever seeing anything more than a hand cream in winter."

"Well, yes," Mycroft conceded, "as a child, he had extremely sensitive skin, which caused him quite some discomfort. I supposed lying in a hospital bed might provoke that problem again, so I had the same lotions mixed for him that helped in the past."

"Oh, that's, uh, that's great," John stuttered, "he really needs that. I mean, they have stuff here, of course, but I'm sure this is much better." He screwed off the lid curiously. "In any case, it smells a lot better," he chuckled. In fact, the white lotion did not smell of much – if at all, it carried a slight milky scent like whipped cream. "That's really good, Mycroft, thank you. I'm sure it'll help."

"I do hope so, John," Mycroft replied, for once without a trace of irony. "By the way, there's no need to worry about your wife or your friends, they are perfectly safe."

"Any trace of Moriarty?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "A small one, but, remember, he is a master of deception. We are working on it." He picked up his umbrella. "Please inform me of any development regarding Sherlock – your personal observations are most welcome, the doctors here do update me on medical details of course, but I value your opinion concerning my brother's well-being highly."

John blinked, taking a moment to process it. "Sure." He cleared his throat nervously. "I'll let you know if anything changes. Aren't you …" He turned around and pointed towards the closed doors of the ICU. "Aren't you going in to see him?"

"No." Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile and made to go.

"Whyever not?" John blurted.

Mycroft stopped. "Neither of us would benefit from that," he stated. "My presence will at best have no effect on him, at worst upset him. He knows I care, John, and unfortunately in a way he loathes. I take no pleasure in staring down at a for once speechless Sherlock Holmes." He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then turned to John again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a criminal mastermind to catch." With that he left, walking away as calmly as ever, feigning unconcern.

John stared at the tall figure until the automatic doors closed and wondered whether Mycroft was afraid of seeing his brother in such a fragile state or whether he assumed Sherlock would hate to be seen like this by his brother. John frowned. Or maybe Mycroft just didn't want to swap his three-piece-suit for a cheap isolation gown.

He shook his head and returned to the ward. Walking into Sherlock's room, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The bed was gone.

His mind came to a halt: he could not take in any sounds or sights, least of all process them; his heart forgot to beat, and he stopped breathing. For a few seconds his world ceased to move, and he was suspended somewhere between reality and nightmare.

But then he felt his heart lurched violently, and all of his blood rushed down to the floor, sucking it from his brain, leaving him reeling and nauseous. _The bed was gone. _He stumbled and just about managed to get a grip on the doorframe, easing himself to the ground. His legs refused to carry him, and his whole body suddenly felt like a huge lump of rubber, numb and uncontrollable. The screeching noise in his head was back, accompanied by a vice-like pressure, threatening to burst his skull.

The bed was gone. Sherlock was dead. Dead.

For a long time, that was all he could think. Gone. Dead, dead, dead.

Suddenly he realized he was hyperventilating, and badly at that. No wonder the earth seemed to tilt sideways – John forced himself to breathe more slowly and deeply, his fingers digging into his thighs until he felt the pain, clearing his head a bit.

_Observe_, his brain commanded, sounding uncannily like Sherlock.

The bed was gone, yes. But the machines surrounding it were gone, too – meaning, they had taken down the portable equipment, mounted it onto the bed and wheeled it out all together. Modern ventilators and the like could be transported easily, running on batteries, the information being transmitted to the hospital's local network via Wifi. Had the patient been dead, they would only have removed the corpse.

Alive, then.

The door flew open. "Oh, Dr Watson, I'm so sorry!" Nurse June barged in, hurriedly kneeling down next to him, grasping him by the shoulder. "I couldn't find you, otherwise I would have told you, I'm really sorry!"

"He's not dead, is he?" John managed to force out.

"No, no," the nurse assured him – and fell silent.

John turned to look at her. She was tense, and very worried, hair untidy, slightly sweaty, scrubs rumpled. Why? Unless she had just got into a fight, it could only be from performing CPR. "But he's in danger," he concluded. "You rushed him out, probably to do scans, more likely straight to surgery." He swallowed and thought he would vomit.

Nurse June nodded. Holding her breath, she began to speak – and then stopped. Twice, she seemed to change her mind about what to say, then settled for jargon. "We had a code blue."

Cardiac arrest.


	33. Code Blue

**Thanks again for reading and reviewing! For those who asked: the story has roughly 50 chapters and it does have an ending, so unless my computer burns down, I get run over by a train or wake up with amnesia, I'm going to post it here. :-)**

**I'm uploading two chapters because we're in a bit of a lull now, and I thought those who find this part boring can skim through it and those who like it may dwell on it.**

* * *

**Code Blue**

Code blue.

Cardiac arrest, caused by pulmonary embolism.

Seriously, could it get any worse?

Nurse June took him to the lounge and led him to a chair, murmuring soothing words, making him sit down, even placing a cup of coffee in his hands. "He'll be fine, he's strong, he's made it so far, he'll pull through, you'll see," she tried to comfort him, as if he didn't know what _pulmonary_ _embolism_ meant. Sherlock's heart had stopped beating as a consequence, probably going into overdrive first. His chances to survive had just hit rock bottom.

The cause could have been anything, a bone splinter, a gas bubble, most likely a blood clot.

John stared at the wall. Not white. Beige. Beige floor, beige chairs, beige curtains. A Tuscan landscape in shades of beige, a photography of Victorian London in sepia. Even the cup in his hands was beige; the milk in the coffee, swirling, slowly changed the black liquid into a beige brew. What a hateful colour. As if the clinical white was not allowed in this part of the hospital, where all patients were closer to death than life, as if the ugly truth could be diluted from glaring white to dull beige. Death wasn't impressed by colours.

He refused to think. If he let his brain roam freely, it spit up images of Sherlock desperately gasping for air, and then slumping down, blood trickling from his lips. He pushed the memory away, But lurking behind it was guilt, gnawing at him, reminding him that he had failed to reconnect with Sherlock. Yes, he had reason to be angry with the sly sod, but he knew why he had faked his death, why he had left him in misery. And now, Sherlock had taken a bullet for John. If Sherlock died now, it was so much worse than three years ago. He had wasted the last chance to be reconciled with him, to give consolation to his friend and let him know that he understood, that is was all right.

No, he reminded himself, Sherlock knew anyway; he had reacted to his voice. That painful waking up had been a mercy – proof that Sherlock trusted him, relied on him. If he survived, they could still find –

John jerked, hissing in pain: he had spilt hot coffee over his hand; he was trembling so badly that the cup threatened to slip from his fingers. He put it down hurriedly. Jesus, he was losing control.

He looked at his watch. Almost thirty minutes had passed. There would be some sort of outcome by now. He got up, steeled himself and walked back to Sherlock's room.

The bed was back. The equipment too.

Sherlock was still gone.

The monitors were silent, the infusion system disconnected, the ventilator shut down. Everything was neatly aligned alongside the bed, ready for the next patient. The previous one did not need it anymore.

Dead.

It was too much. John felt the earth shift and himself falling off.

* * *

Someone was kissing him. God, how good that felt … soft lips pressing against his mouth, the heat of another body so close it was caressing his skin, and this wonderfully familiar scent, a hint of sandalwood –

John's eyes flew open in shock. "What are you doing here?" It came out like an accusation.

Mary blinked, pursed her lips and sat up. She gave him a glare which uncannily resembled a Sherlockian scowl. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I am," John protested, "but Mycroft promised to keep you safe!"

"I'm perfectly safe, John, don't be foolish. Mycroft has the entire hospital under surveillance and his minions prowl the corridors, much to the annoyance of the staff." Her face softened. "How are you doing?"

John just let out a long breath. "Okay, I guess. Got a bit of a headache and the worry about Sherlock feels like a millstone around my neck. No, make it two millstones. Three, in fact."

"He's alive, you know. Much the same as before."

John gaped at her, taking a moment to let it sink in. "Oh God, thank you. Last thing I heard was _pulmonary embolism_. And they've cleared his room and I thought –" He swallowed hard, his voice breaking.

"They moved him to another room. Mycroft's doing."

John sat up hurriedly, dizziness threatening to turn his stomach. He ignored it. "But he's alive? What did they say, what did they do, how's his prognosis?"

Mary pressed a button on the side of his bed and a few seconds later, Nurse June came in. "Dr Watson, good to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare – thought your concussion had finally turned into something bad, but it turns out you simply forgot to eat. Or drink."

"Oh," John whispered, embarrassed. Normally, only Sherlock managed to simply forget maintaining his transport.

Mary pointed to a tray on the bedside table. "Eat. Drink. Then you can go see Sherlock."

"Okay," John rubbed his face self-consciously. "How's he?"

"The man's a miracle, if you ask me," the nurse grinned. "It seems he solved the problem himself – somewhere on the way to surgery, his heart started beating again, a nice, regular rhythm, and the problem disappeared. We suppose the medication kicked in and dissolved the embolus. He's a bit worse for wear, but doing fine so far. I'll go check on him right now." She winked at him and left the room.

"She likes you a lot," Mary stated, her head tilted sideways. John just looked at her dumbly. "Oh, John Hamish Watson, don't be blind."

He frowned. "Are you jealous?"

"No. I know you." And with that she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. Very softly first, then a bit more forceful, her mouth opening, tongue exploring his lower lip. John's hands flew to her hips and he pulled her closer, the desperation of the last hours suddenly creeping into the kiss – but she pulled away. "Eat," she commanded, leaving John panting and leaning forward, yearning for more. He wanted to say _later_, but she would not have it and fended him off, ignoring his impatience. Was that how Sherlock felt when John hassled him during a case until he finally munched a few slices of toast? God, now he understood his annoyance.

"Why were they taking him to surgery?" Mary asked quietly while John was busy with his meal.

"Um," he swallowed. "Probably to cut open his chest and get access to his heart. Persuade it to start beating again." He scrunched up his face and took another spoonful of his chicken curry. "Want details?"

"No." Mary frowned. "Sounds rather unpleasant."

"Yeah. He's got pneumonia, did you know?"

"Oh," she looked horrified, an expression that was rare on her serene face. "Oh, God, no."

"Yeah, concealed it from me and everyone around him, the idiot. That's about the worst constellation you can have in a patient with a hole in the lung and dependent on a ventilator."

"Sense of drama, huh?"

"You bet."

Mary frowned. "You think he wanted do die? Ignored the pneumonia?"

John nodded. "You had the same suspicions, remember?"

She hummed silently. "He's doing a pretty good job avoiding death now, isn't he?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Granted."

"And did I hear correctly, that it would be you, lying here, and me, crying my eyes out, if it hadn't been for him?"

"No."

"No?" She raised her finely arched brows.

"I wouldn't be lying here. I'd be dead. Shot straight in the face by Moriarty. And you'd be so angry with me, you'd be cursing."

"True. Though I'd be crying for the rest of my life later." Mary glowered at him, then allowed a slow smile to light up her face. "Just that I know what I owe Sherlock. Apart from the fact, of course, that he drew Moriarty out of hiding, and you followed him like a duck to the water. But that's the man I married."

John swallowed the last bit of chicken curry and it almost got stuck half-way down. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. That's just you. And him, I guess."

"Mary, I …" He broke off, racking his brain how to phrase his worry and wondering whether the timing was the worst he could do, but then – he needed to get it off his chest. "I don't know how we're going to handle it when he wakes up. _If_ he wakes up. I mean, he's so ill and damaged with whatever happened and I don't know-"

"John, shut up. We'll tackle it one by one. And I'm not going to keep you away from him, so stop worrying. You won't find me wailing to come home and attend to your marital duties while you want to hold vigil beside his bed."

John blinked. "My marital duties? Does that mean I won't get laid the next couple of weeks?"

Mary plucked the fork from his fingers and put it back on the tray. Leaning in on him, she huffed, "That depends entirely on you." Then she closed the gap between them and kissed him properly, regardless of the curry taste.

"And what are we going to do next?" John muttered after several minutes of thorough snogging, resulting in ruffled hair and rumpled clothes. "You're going back to Sherlock and I'm going home," Mary declared.

"Home?" He drew back in shock. "It's not safe,-"

"It's perfectly safe," Mary cut him off. "Mycroft will ensure that. He has turned our beautiful house into a bloody fortress, but I can't blame him – I told him in no uncertain terms that I was unwilling to stay any longer in this dreadful bunker at MI5 or 6 or whatever place that was. I won't allow that criminal madman to ruin my life, I have work to do. There's a cartload of exam papers sitting on my desk, waiting to be marked."

John bit back his protest; he knew when he had lost. "Okay. But be careful, call for help immediately if something seems odd, will you? No stupid heroism, promise?"

Mary grinned. "Promise. Stupidity and heroism are strictly for you and Sherlock."


	34. Royal Suite

**Royal Suite**

They had moved Sherlock to a room at the corner of the building. It was clearly the hospital's equivalent to the Ritz' Royal Suite: large, with warm wooden colours, and one side consisting entirely of a glass front, offering a magnificent view across the Thames and London's skyline. Not that Sherlock appreciated it.

He lay as unmoving as before, almost lost between pillows and blankets, tied down by a web of wires, tubes and infusion lines. John went over to him, automatically checking the readings on the screens even before looking at the patient himself. His vitals were back to – well, not normal, but acceptable.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. Sherlock looked much the same, his chest rising and falling with the hiss of the ventilator. Looking closer, John noticed his cheeks were slightly flushed, a fine sheen of sweat covering his mask-like face, like a wax figure left out in the rain.

So, the pneumonia was finally giving him a fever. John sighed heavily at the prospect.

At least they had managed to bring home a little closer to Sherlock: the pervasive hospital smell was much less prominent, masked by the familiar scent of the same washing powder John had used at 221B. The nurses had also replaced the standard bedclothes with Sherlock's expensive linen, covering him up with the striped woolen blanket.

He folded it down a bit; no need to keep him all tucked up with a rising fever. Underneath, Sherlock was naked: they had spared him the hospital gown, but it made the wound dressing and the tube snaking out from it all the more visible, so John pulled the linen up to his shoulders.

He felt a strong urge to touch Sherlock, to stroke his face and melt away the mask, make those features alive again - but he was still apprehensive of Sherlock's aversion to being touched. He had not seemed to mind it when half-conscious, but John could not be sure how a comatose Sherlock perceived the invasion of his personal space. It was possible that he did not recognize John at all and interpreted it as an act of aggression: there were stories of people who had experienced their comatose state as a long agonizing nightmare.

He remembered one patient who believed to be a wounded soldier on a medieval battlefield, hiding among the dead, keeping absolutely still to avoid attracting attention. The man had been convinced that all voices and touches were the enemy looking for survivors, killing them, or worse, mutilating them while still alive. When the nurse had squeezed his hand reassuringly, he had mistaken her for a plunderer intent on cutting off his finger in order to steal his marriage ring.

John prayed that Sherlock retained a fraction of logic and reason, but it was more likely his mind was plagued by memories of torture.

So, instead of touching, John just sighed and softly said, "Hey, Sherlock, you idiot, welcome back among the living. It's John speaking, in case you didn't deduce that. Well, I'm sure you recognised me, and you're probably rolling your eyes at me, scoffing _obviously _– at least I hope you do." He hesitated a moment. "Listen, you clot. Don't you do that ever again, do you hear me? That dying lark is not funny. You made me watch your suicide, you left me three years wondering how I had failed you or how I could have saved you. You have caused me so much grief and agony, I can't even think about it. And now you've saved my life on top of all that. So, you bloody arrogant stubborn brilliant amazing idiot, you can't just leave me now. And don't try to turn yourself into a hero, it doesn't suit you, you said so yourself. I won't have it, you hear me? I want you back. That's all I want. Right. Okay, so that's that. Now get some rest and _heal_." He huffed and looked around.

He spotted a large armchair in the corner that looked more like a crossing between a throne and a sofa; he hauled the beige monstrosity over to the bed and positioned it so that he was close to Sherlock's face. With growing worry, John noted the fine beads of sweat trickling down his temples. John groaned. Sherlock certainly did not dither – the fever was rising quickly, as one look at his body temperature indicated on the screen confirmed.

Sighing, he heaved himself out of the chair again, wincing at the pain in his chest. He took a cloth and started dabbing at Sherlock's face, talking quietly to him. "You're sweating quite a bit, Sherlock, and you don't want the sweat to trickle into your eyes, do you? That would sting quite awfully. You've got a fever, you know, and they're trying to keep it down but it'll be a while until it breaks. Wait a second, I'll get a cold compress for you." He rummaged through the trolleys, found a suitable towel, went to the sink and soaked it in cold water.

"There," he muttered as he gently placed the cloth on Sherlock's forehead. "That should help a bit. Your heart stopped, you know what that means? Normally, they would treat you with hypothermia, cooling your body down to protect that precious brain of yours, but you idiot managed to conceal the pneumonia from me and now that you've got a massive infection along with a bullet hole in your chest and a totally messed up heart rate, they don't dare to do that. Well, they're doing all they can but it's really up to you, Sherlock." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, biting back the sobs lurking in his throat. He was still shaken, but somehow he felt that scolding an unconscious man who could not defend himself was not fair. 'Watson, where's your bedside manner?' he silently chided himself.

"Sherlock," he cleared his throat and began again. "Don't give up. We all want you – no, need you back. Don't leave us again. You're not alone, you know, and I'll be there for you, no matter what. Mary won't stand between us, I think she told you so and you must have seen that she means it. You have so much to come back to – I'm sure Lestrade's sitting on a pile of unsolved cases and Mrs Hudson can't wait to be your housekeeper again – she's kept all your stuff, and I have your violin, so 221B is waiting for you. And Mycroft … well, you can't waste the chance to gloat over the fact that you rescued your brother by giving him a piggy-back ride down the Shard." John giggled, just a little bit hysterical. "Seriously, Sherlock, I'm so looking forward to sitting by the fire in the living room of 221B, listening to your adventures over a cup of tea. Or, if you don't want to talk about it, then that's fine too. Play the violin. Or just retreat to your Mind Palace. It's all fine, you know. As long as you're there." John smiled, just a little bit.

Then he sat back and took up his vigil again, silently praying for yet another miracle.


	35. Breathing's boring

**My dear reviewers, you're absolutely spoiling me! And I'm very grateful for that because it makes me unbelievably happy!**

**To answer your questions: **

**How long did it take me to write the story? I started this year at the beginning of April, sometimes writing five days in a row and then having no time to write for several weeks – and the daily editing still takes a shocking amount of time!**

**The coma patient with the medieval battlefield illusion is based on a real case given in a medical book (to be more precise: Ullrich, Lothar, Dietmar Stolecki and Matthias Grünewald, eds. 2010. **_**Intensivpflege und Anästhesie.**_** 2****nd**** ed. Georg Thieme Verlag. 86-92.) I'm not medically trained, so I'm scraping together knowledge from various sources – but beware, Sherlock being Sherlock isn't going to be a typical coma patient!**

**It's not a Johnlock story (though I'm not opposed to Johnlock at all), I rather wanted to explore the dimensions of friendship – which in my experience sometimes involve a love even more complex than that supported by physical attraction.**

**Alas, I'm not a native speaker, so please feel free to point out language errors to me!**

**Long talk – I'll shut up now! :-)**

* * *

**Breathing's boring**

The next days passed in a blur. Sherlock's fever rose quickly and they battled it with medication and cold compresses, hoping to bring it down, but it neither peaked nor broke. The pneumonia was just as persistent, sapping all strength from Sherlock's body, strength he desperately needed for healing the bullet wound.

There was some good news, though: the collapsed lung was unfolding surprisingly fast, stunning doctors and nurses. But John dared not cheer, warily checking the drainage system over and over again, not liking what came out of Sherlock's chest at all.

Then, virtually overnight, Sherlock gained the upper hand: the fever dropped and he seemed to overcome the pneumonia, though it would probably be weeks until the symptoms resolved completely.

The doctors marvelled at the progress and attributed it to their excellent care and an exceptionally strong immune system; John put it down to Sherlock's unwillingness to let Moriarty succeed in killing him.

But Sherlock did not wake up. They lifted the sedation, yet he remained in a coma, unable to breathe on his own.

They checked for brain damage. John spent hours waiting for the results, the scenarios playing out in his mind more terrifying by the minute.

When the results finally came back, they were inconclusive. He was as wise as before. John put his head down on Sherlock's bed and told him to stop being too lazy to breathe. Sherlock did not answer _breathing is boring._ Neither did he breathe.

The respiratory therapist muttered and tutted, looking unhappier everyday and John knew that a tracheotomy was inevitable and should have been performed days ago, but he himself had prevented it, and now he tore himself to pieces over the decision. But the idea of Sherlock regaining consciousness and being unable to speak simply scared him, and if he was honest with himself, he also hated to see a scar on Sherlock's throat. He knew this was highly unprofessional, and that was probably the reason why patients should never be treated by relatives or friends. Sentiment, John thought wryly. In truth, he had hoped for a miracle, for Sherlock to show signs of waking up and taking charge of his body again. Instead, John saw him grow weaker, losing the battle with the infection and the massive injury.

He sat and talked for hours to Sherlock. When he ran out of words and his voice grew hoarse, he gave in to his own need and took Sherlock's hand, clasping it firmly; he croaked an explanation, hoping that Sherlock didn't mistake it for some sort of violation; he apologized for not having consented to the tracheotomy earlier and described the procedure in detail, knowing that Sherlock would want to understand.

When they were ready, instruments all laid out and the surgeon poised to make the incision, John lost his nerves.

"No," he rasped. "Give it one more try. Please."

"Dr Watson," the surgeon protested, "you know as well as I do that it is necessary. He's in a coma, no signs of waking up. And really, it is not such a big deal."

"I know. Do an SBT. Please," he begged, his voice breaking.

The surgeon sighed. "He doesn't meet _any_ of the requirements for a spontaneous breathing trial. On the Glasgow coma scale, he's-"

"Yes, I know, I'm perfectly aware of it," John stated, suddenly finding strength in his voice again. "But this is Sherlock." He managed to hide his panic over the finality of the step, as if it meant that Sherlock would never wake up. He knew how irrational it was, but he couldn't help.

Nurse June exchanged a glance with the surgeon, and the man nodded curtly, clearly convinced of the futility of doing a spontaneous breathing trial on a deeply comatose person. He did it anyway.

With the assistance of the ventilator gone, Sherlock stopped breathing. Of course he did. John bit his lips until he tasted blood. He watched the sats drop dangerously, heard the alarms going off. Nothing happened.

"I'm sorry," Nurse June said, and John just nodded.

And then Sherlock stumped them all.

Let down by the ventilator, he finally attempted to breathe. The machine gave off a cacophony of acoustic signals, but to John it sounded like angel choirs: Sherlock was trying to breathe, and not just feebly – he was doing a surprisingly good job. His muscles were far too weak to keep it up, of course, but he was clearly ready for the weaning process.

"How the hell is that even possible?" the surgeon muttered, doing a series of tests and exams. "He hasn't responded before, not at all …"

"That's Sherlock for you," John chuckled, a grin spreading on his face that tried to reach all the way to his ears.

It seemed, once Sherlock had made up his mind to breathe, he did so reliably. He needed help doing it, his muscles lacking the strength, and he would be on the ventilator for quite a while yet, but he was now breathing at his own rate. They opted for pressure support ventilation, giving him control over depth and length of respiration with the ventilator delivering positive pressure into the lungs whenever Sherlock initiated a breath – which he did like clockwork. During the following days, they would now gradually reduce the pressure until he was ready for extubation.

John just sat and smiled happily, holding Sherlock's hand and talking with a completely sore throat. "You know, you could try the next feat, you mad genius. How about waking up, huh? You're lungs are looking so much better, though you still got a bit of a fever." He bit back his worries about possible brain damage from the cardiac arrest. They could not exclude it, and Sherlock breathing did not mean he would ever wake up or that his brain would be intact. But one step at a time, John told himself. Sherlock never stuck to the rules, so he was not surprised that he made no progress on the Glasgow coma scale. He half expected him to jump the stages in one go anyway.

After two days, John's heart sank again.

"You know, waking up takes time," John said to Sherlock. "Normally, patients start slowly, with small movements and reaction to painful stimuli, they open their eyes and make incomprehensible sounds – or is that beneath you? Can you do that for me? Or do I have to pinch you?"

He received no answer whatsoever, but he did not pinch Sherlock either.

He regularly updated Mycroft, but Sherlock's brother did not come back to the hospital. He also did not share any news on Moriarty – no matter how much John protested, Mycroft refused to address the topic.

John also talked to Mary on the phone, usually several times a day, but he begged her not to come to the hospital. She was safe at home, and there was nothing she could do anyway. "I could hug you," she protested gently, and he could hear her smile, but he refused. "No, Mary, I'd only freak out with fear that Moriarty might attack you on the way here. Even Mycroft can't protect you all the time."

"I know," she sighed. "And Sherlock shows no signs of waking up?"

"Nope. Wound's healing fine, lungs are much better though still producing lots of muck that needs to be suctioned out – God, he must hate it."

"But no waking up."

"He wouldn't just wake up anyway. I mean, it's not like on the telly when people seem to be asleep and then just pop their eyes open, smiling and thanking everyone."

"Well," Mary replied dryly, "I'd rather expect Sherlock to insult everyone anyway."

"True," John conceded, but he didn't smile. "Waking up from a coma is a slow process with many stages in between and no guarantee that the patient progresses to the next stage. It could take months. He could get stuck. Or he could never wake up at all. Mary," he sighed, "as soon as he shows any signs of waking up, I'll come home, I promise. I just-"

"Shut up, John," Mary cut him off. "Do not have a bad conscience because of me. Just don't, OK? If he shows signs of waking up, you need to be with him more than ever. He'll be confused, right? So stay. Stay, and don't feel bad. You're the best friend he could have. And he knows that."

John swallowed hard. "Mary?"

"Yes?"

"Love you."

"Love you too, John. And John?"

"Yeah?" He barely managed to suppress a sob.

"Pinch Sherlock from me."

"Yeah," he barked out a laugh. "How do you know I can't do it?"

"Cause I know you."

John smiled, feeling a little more light-hearted.


	36. Roman Emperor

**Roman Emperor**

Sherlock's breathing improved rapidly, and the weaning process was not only successful, but progressed much quicker than anyone had thought possible. At night, however, he was supposed to rest with full ventilator support to prevent muscle fatigue and give his exhausted body a break from the arduous task. That worked fine in the beginning.

Until it didn't. In the small hours of a cloudy day, the patter of raindrops still in his ears, John started from his sleep: the sounds of choking and several alarms going off tore into his mind. He was stumbling to Sherlock's bedside before his mind was even fully awake. Hitting both light and alarm buttons, he lowered the side rail, fumbled for his stethoscope and checked Sherlock's lungs.

Sherlock was clearly in distress: his face was a grimace of pain, chest heaving, desperately trying to cough up the tube, a wet rattling noise in his chest.

Groaning, John put the stethoscope away. "Sherlock, can you hear me? It's John, I'm here to help you, just stay calm."

Donning a gown, gloves and mask, he continued as calmly as possible. "It's alright mate, hang in there. We need to suction the phlegm from your lungs. I'm sorry, I know it feels awful, but it will only be a moment." When the night nurse hurried in, he just looked up and indicated her to assist him. She did without protest.

He gave Sherlock several breaths with the breathing bag before he guided the catheter into the ET tube down into Sherlock's lungs. The coughing became even worse, wrecking the whole body with spasms. "It's all right, it's all right," John tried to soothe him. "It'll be only a moment. We're almost done." He glanced nervously at Sherlock's vital signs, but he bore up steadily despite his distress.

When he was done with the suctioning, he pulled up the catheter and connected the ventilator again. His own heart fluttered nervously as he listened to Sherlock's lungs, but the coughing had subsided and he seemed fine again. Setbacks were inevitable, John told himself.

"Jesus," he muttered nevertheless. "What was that all about?" Allowing himself a glimmer of optimism, he checked Sherlock's reflexes, hoping that the episode had sparked some signs of waking up.

It had not. Apart from the coughing, Sherlock hadn't progressed an inch on the coma scale, remaining as impassive as before. John sighed heavily and put his head in his hands, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving him exhausted, on the brink of tears.

The nurse gave him a pat on the shoulder and left.

"You know, Sherlock," John mumbled, "you've made it so far, I can't understand why you won't wake up. Everyone thought you'd die from either the gunshot or the pneumonia or any of the subsequent complications – but simply not waking up is not fair, Sherlock." He suddenly sat up, frowning indignantly. "Are you trying to hide from me?" he blurted. Staring at the pale face, he slumped down again. "Sorry. I shouldn't blame you. I know you're just ill and I'm losing my nerves. Or, of course, that precious brain of yours really is damaged after your prank with the pulmonary embolism and the cardiac arrest and all." He took a deep breath and wiped away the tears. "They're probably going to shove you into an MRI scanner to have a peek at your brain. Much good it will do," he huffed and returned to his cot.

He lay down and turned to the wall-sized window, watching a sunrise without a sun. Gradually, the sky turned to a leaden grey, heavy clouds hanging low over the Thames. It was still early morning and the ward was silent, lights dimmed and staff treading softly. He cried silently, allowing himself a minor and rather controlled breakdown before having to face another day with a mute and unresponsive Sherlock.

Jesus, what he'd give if this were just one of those _I don't talk for days on end_ episodes – though he'd now say, _yes, it does bother me._ He'd be fine with everything right now, even bullet holes in the wall and heads in the fridge, and he wouldn't complain about being drugged by Sherlock if he just woke up. He gave a hysterical laugh, remembering Sherlock's feeble attempt at distracting him with _ketchup, was it, or brown? _trying to keep him from the realisation of what the sod had done to him.

God, he had put up with a lot from that genius – but Sherlock had depended on him in his own way, too. Looking at him for cues how to behave, quietly asking _not good?,_ smiling for the hated cameras, putting on the infamous deer stalker.

Actually, John had quite liked the deer stalker – it suited Sherlock. Kind of reflected his eccentricity.

John rubbed his eyes and turned on his side, as always facing Sherlock's bed to keep an eye on him, determined to get at least another hour of sleep. As he lay there, slowly drifting into oblivion, his tired brain belatedly registered a shadow that should not have been there. A shadow at Sherlock's bed.

His eyes snapped open. His neck cracked viciously as he sat up too fast, gawping at the bed.

Sherlock was lying on his back, as before.

With one arm raised.

John stared and gaped and could not take it in. Sherlock's arm was suspended in mid-air, hand outstretched, fingers splayed in a commanding gesture, like a Roman emperor addressing the masses.

John giggled.

And that was when it dawned on him that he was indeed heading for a nervous breakdown on a grand scale, because his brain refused to categorize the movement on the Glasgow coma scale, and all he could see was Sherlock swathed in a sheet, a dignified Julius Caesar determined to cause trouble. In Buckingham palace.

He laughed hysterically, his body shaken by a violent hiccup, and when he tried to get up, he just plopped back onto the bed helplessly. After another minute of erupting into silly giggles, he slowly realised that Sherlock had just undertaken a step towards waking up.

He should check his reflexes. Assess him properly according to the coma scale.

Instead, he just blinked.

The arm did not waver, still greeting an imaginary crowd.

John dissolved into giggles again, and that was why he did not foresee what was next.

In a flash, Sherlock's arm plunged down, fingers instantly wrapping around the breathing tube.

John jumped up and yelled, "No!" all silliness gone. He dove for the bed, pushing the alarm button and grabbing Sherlock's hand. What ensued was a surprisingly embittered struggle.

The nurse stormed in, calling "What's wrong?" and "Oi! My!"

"Sherlock!" John wheezed, desperately trying to prevent Sherlock from ripping out the tube. "Stop it! For God's sake, stop it! I'm going to take the tube out, put STOP PULLING AT IT YOU IDIOT!"

Somehow, that worked, or maybe Sherlock simply ran out of strength, but his hand suddenly went limp, and John was able to pry his fingers away. "So much for impaired fine motor skills," he grumbled. "We'll extubate him," he instructed the nurse. She looked worried, but before she could protest, he promised, "On my responsibility. I think he's ready."

John hurriedly slipped on gloves and checked whether everything was available for reintubation, should it become necessary.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked, breathless.

No reaction. The nurse raised her brows, but John decided to talk Sherlock through the procedure as if he were awake. With him, you never knew.

"Alright, Sherlock, I first need to suction out your mouth, then the tube in your trachea. You know the drill, it's unpleasant but necessary. Then I'll remove the tape and disconnect the tube. I'll give you some breaths with the manual breathing bag before I deflate the cuff and pull out the tube. When I tell you to, try to cough, okay? I'll guide you through, don't worry."

Sherlock gave no sign of understanding and his eyelids never fluttered, but he did not resist either.

John went through the steps as quickly as possible, and at some point Sherlock started coughing, again struggling against the tube. John placed the oxygen mask within reach, took a syringe, deflated the cuff and calmly explained, "I'm going to pull out the tube now. Keep coughing, you're doing fine, Sherlock."

The tube came out easily enough but the procedure left Sherlock coughing and retching; John placed the oxygen mask over his face and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Easy, go easy mate. It'll be all right in a moment."

Eventually the coughing and retching stopped, and Sherlock's breathing became steadier. John listened to his lungs for a long time, making absolutely sure that Sherlock was up to the task, but he was breathing entirely on his own now, and doing so steadily, despite the phlegm threatening to clog the lungs.

John smiled and felt a happiness spreading through him as if it were Christmas morning with a live pony under the tree. "That was brilliant, Sherlock. Absolutely brilliant. Your throat's gonna be sore for a while, and I know you don't like the noise and the pressure of the mask, but please tolerate it, it'll help you breathe despite all that stuff in your lungs." John settled in his chair again, watching over Sherlock like a hawk. He couldn't help but grin proudly when the doctors came for their morning round, exclaiming in surprise at Sherlock's progress.

However, his exhilaration faded when Sherlock seemed to lapse back into the coma again: he kept breathing on his own with a wet rattling sound in his chest, only supported by a nasal cannula supplying him with oxygen, but he made no further movements; he neither stirred nor opened his eyes.

John took up his vigil again, and it was as if the whole process was repeating itself. He kept talking until his voice failed, then took Sherlock's hand in his and stroked it, biting back the tears.

With every passing hour his chances of waking up dropped.

In the end, John gave in and cried shamelessly.


	37. Locked

**Locked**

"John."

'Oh, for god's sake, not now, I'm tired, give me a break, will you …' He drifted straight back into the sticky molasses of sleep, his head heavy, limbs and back aching, the mind sluggish and full of barely contained images of horror, just waiting to break through the stupor.

"John."

'Get lost, go back to your scheming and leave me alone,' John muttered in his mind. Possibly aloud, too.

"John." The voice was firm now, though not louder – commanding solely by will.

'God, you Holmses are a pest,' he thought, 'how am I gonna get rid of you?' _Punch him_, his mind supplied helpfully, and he tried to bark _sod off! _but out came an indistinguishable _hmumpf_, resulting in a drool.

"John." The voice was now a steely order, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder – strangely, the touch felt far too gentle to add authority to the words.

John opened his eyes. Confused, his brain failed to process anything, and he could not make sense of the image before him – white sheet, pale skin, thin tube, dark curls. Finally, it clicked. He jolted up, sending a sharp pain down his spine. He had fallen asleep in the chair, slumped onto the bed, his head next to Sherlock's shoulder. It had to be past midnight, he realised; the lights in the room had been dimmed to a soft glow and the illuminated London skyline was visible through the windows.

Sherlock, of course, had not moved; in half-darkness, with the monitors glowing in reds and greens, his face seemed even more unreal.

"John."

"Mycroft," John sighed wearily. "What do you want?" Before he looked up at Mycroft, he routinely checked on Sherlock. No change. Only then did he turn to the elder Holmes. The man was impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a blue tie that matched his icy gaze; the facial swelling was gone, and any traces of the bruises were carefully covered up. "Hang on," John suddenly blurted, "how come you walk in here in a suit? Ever heard of isolation gowns?"

Mycroft just smiled enigmatically. "Be assured, John, I pose no threat to Sherlock."

John frowned and tried to stare him down, in vain. "No new development, Shelrock's the same," he finally muttered and rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, he realised that this was the first time Mycroft was visiting his brother – unless John had slept through another encounter. He stared at Mycroft: his face was as unreadable as ever. In fact, he seemed to ignore Sherlock completely.

"I am aware of that, John. Sherlock is not the reason I came." He took something out of his pocket. "You are."

John just stared at him blankly, waiting for an explantaion. Also in vain. "So?" he finally snapped.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his gaze for the first time sliding to the still figure on the bed. "You know that all of this -" he vaguely gestured at Sherlock, "is due to the fact that Sherlock tried to obtain the phone he lost in Russia."

"Well, if you insist on omitting minor details such as a bomb in a highrise, secret data on gun running, and Moriarty trying to shoot me, almost killing your brother instead, you won't find me nitpicking," John spat at him.

"There's no need to be upset, John. I do know who is to blame."

"And you're sure you're not blaming Sherlock?" John retorted. "I had a feeling like that."

Mycroft looked at his brother and said almost absentmindedly, "No, I blame Moriarty, of course, and myself for not realising he was still alive. An unforgivable mistake." He looked back at John. "That is not important right now. During his encounter with Moriarty at the Shard, Sherlock obtained the data he had lost – he sent it to me and I transferred the relevant parts to his phone. His current phone, mind you." He held out the black device. "You will find everything on it, John. The diary he kept during his hiatus and everything he has written after his return."

"What am I to do with it?" John said, staring at the phone, confounded.

"Read it, of course," Mycroft replied with a tight smile. "That is what he wanted."

It was eerie, John realised, talking about Sherlock as if he were dead, with him lying right there, unable to interrupt with snarky comments and derisive noises.

"I still don't understand why he didn't just talk to me," John sighed, extending his hand.

Mycroft dropped the phone into it. "He couldn't. Whatever happened, it robbed him of words." He seemed momentarily lost in thought, but the sharpness in his gaze returned immediately. "John, I appreciate it greatly that you remain at my brother's side, and please be assured that your wife and your friends are safe. We are currently following a promising trail that will hopefully lead us to Moriarty." He cast a glance at Sherlock. "Perhaps things will return to normal, soon."

John looked at the prone figure and couldn't stop the words slipping out. "Doesn't look like it. He has to wake up first."

"Well, at least he is alive and breathing," Mycroft stated calmly. "Though it sounds rather horrific," he added with a disapproving frown.

"He's just survived a bullet wound and pneumonia, Mycroft," John barked, "he's allowed to sound horrific. That's not the problem. For all we know he might be brain-damaged." John rubbed his face, weariness overwhelming him again. "He might never wake up, Mycroft. Or he might wake up to a vegetative state, and I don't know what's worse for him. With every day, his chances drop. Significantly, Mycroft, it's statistics, Sherlock could give you a lecture on it." He scrubbed his face manically now, until he felt the faint, very faint touch of Mycroft's fingertips on his shoulder.

"Let us not give up hope, John. For all we know, he might just be rebuilding his Mind Palace." With a tiny smile, Mycroft turned and walked away, but John noted that his steps weren't quite as unburdened as before.

"You're all such bloody good actors," John muttered darkly as the door closed behind him.

Looking back at Sherlock, he tried to grasp what Mycroft had implied. "Sherlock," he growled, "if you're not waking up because you're in there, redecorating your bloody Mind Palace while I'm worrying myself sick, I'll light a fire under your bloody ass!"

Of course, he received no acknowledgement whatsoever.

"Damn it," he huffed, switching the phone on. "So, what have you got on here, huh?"

The screen lit up in bright colours.

John frowned, staring at it uncomprehendingly. "What the f…?" Blinking, he pinched the back of his nose. "You gotta be kidding me …"

The phone was locked.


	38. Personal Message

**Again: thank you. I mean it.**

* * *

**Personal Message**

John stared at the login page of the phone, taunting him with a cryptic _I AM **** LOCKED. _

A four digit code. He had no clue what the password was. Not the slightest. He felt tempted to throw the phone at the wall but suppressed the impulse immediately. Instead, he looked at Sherlock. "Brilliant, Sherlock. Kindly give me a clue, would you?"

The face remained impassive, of course.

John sighed and took out his own phone. He scrolled through the list of contacts until he found _the British government_ and pressed the call button.

Mycroft Holmes answered immediately. "Yes, John?" Was there a faint note of amusement in his voice?

"The phone is locked," John bit out angrily.

"Ah, well yes, of course." There was definitely amusement in his voice. John regretted not having punched Mycroft earlier. "I don't have the password."

"It is _very_ simple to guess. This is of course not the original password," Mycroft explained in a condescending tone. "A four digit code would not be secure enough. The original was much longer, involving a combination of random numbers and characters, impossible to crack."

"Yes, thank you, Mycroft, I need the current one," John said tersely, feeling ridiculed. He was certain Mycroft had set up this code for him to work out, taunting him.

"I am not taunting you, John," Mycroft replied to his unspoken accusation. "I did not have the original password. Sherlock was too careful for that. He did, however, reset the password himself to this extremely simple code so that I could unlock the phone easily while the content was still protected from any outsiders trying to access it. But more importantly, he wanted me to give you the phone locked."

"Why?" John rasped, his anger briefly directed at Sherlock, who managed to throw him puzzles even while he lay unconscious.

"It is not a code, John," Mycroft drawled. "It is a message."

John coughed. "A message. What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He suddenly felt tears pricking in his eyes – he was angry, but exhaustion had eroded his last shred of calmness, making his temper volatile. He felt he was heading for a serious breakdown. And most of all he was fed up being teased by the Holmes brothers; his sense of humour had been blown to pieces by that bullet, and after spending days keeping vigil next to Sherlock, he was at the end of his tether.

"As I said, the current password is easy to guess for those close to Sherlock," Mycroft continued, pausing expectantly.

"221B?" John quipped, choosing the first thing that came to his mind.

"I said it is a message, John," Mycroft lectured, sounding as if he was about to end the call.

"Mycroft!" John yelled, anger and frustration bubbling over. "I'm not in the mood for guessing! I've spent far too much time guessing what's going on in that bloody mind of your brother's, I can't –"

"John."

"I can't take it anymore!"

"John."

"Tell me the bloody password!"

"John."

"I am listening!" He roared, so loud that a concerned nurse pushed the glass door open, poking her head inside, frowning at him. He made an apologetic gesture and waved her off hurriedly.

He heard a deep sigh. "No, you are not listening," Mycroft said, suddenly sounding tired. "The password is _John_." He hung up.

John stared at Sherlock's phone. _John_. The password was his name. He closed his eyes in exasperation. Of course.

He carefully punched in the characters: the login page glowed, and the phone was unlocked.

John bent over Sherlock, holding up the illuminated screen to his impassive face. "_Johnlocked_. Is that your idea of a joke, huh? What kind of a message is that anyway?"

He sat down again, sighing. "So, what have you got on here? Any secret confessions? Scandals? Vices?" He looked at the screen, displaying a number of folders, one labelled _Diary_. He clicked it, revealing a list of documents, consecutively numbered.

John sighed. "No titles, of course, no _Hot in Paris _or _Naked in Naples_. Wouldn't have expected anything else," he muttered. Looking up, he suddenly smiled. "Sherlock, if this isn't a good read, you can keep it! I'm not gonna sit here listening to you droning on about 200 different types of tobacco ash! Though, technically, I'm not listening, I'm reading, as you would be keen to point out," he snorted, "and it's two hundred and forty-three, _I know._" He opened the first document. "Okay, so what have we got here … What's that?" He stared at the phone in surprise.

It was a picture. Sherlock's face, a bit blurry, obviously taken with the phone held out at arm's length. He was looking into the camera, his head turned slightly sideways. John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock was wearing a scarf and perhaps a coat, the collar up, that much was visible, but everything else was dark; he hadn't used the flash, hence the blurriness. Impossible to say where or when it was taken. His curls were shorter than at the time of his death, but he looked much the same – no, not quite, John realised, he looked not just grave or stern but sad, if not to say sorrowful. Underlaid with suspicion.

John shook his head; maybe he was reading too much into it, after all it was just a snapshot. He scrolled down and found a date at the bottom of the picture: now he knew. It had been taken exactly one year after the fall. He bit his lips. One year; he remembered that day vividly. It had been bleak and rainy, the black tombstone glistening wet, flowers rotting at its base. He did not want to think about that day.

Scrolling down, he finally found the text.

* * *

_John,_

_Mycroft has told me to keep a diary for you to read. You may be surprised that I do as told; however, it is possible that I will not survive, and then I have no means of explaining myself to you. _

_Strangely, Mycroft refrained from pointing out that in the event of my demise, this should no longer be important to me – but it is. Therefore, I will try to write about my current endeavours, should you care to learn about them. I think you care. _

_I have included a picture of me, believing that – for some irrational reason – you would want to know what I currently look like. _

_I cannot guarantee that I will find the time and patience to write regularly, although I believe it may be a meaningful occupation during surveillance stakeouts and other boring tasks. I promise, I will try to write in a comprehensible way, but I am not used to keeping a diary or writing personal letters. I will do my best, and hopefully I will improve my skills in the course of time. _

_Bear with me. _

_S_

* * *

John stared at the phone. It was strange to read a message from Sherlock to him; his friend suddenly seemed both closer and more distant, the words sounding aloof and stilted. Still, his concern was perceptible – _I think you care._ 'I certainly do,' John mused. 'You do know me, don't you? After all, you thought of including a picture. ' He felt a smile sneak onto his face as he read the text one more time. _Bear with me_ … it was a plea, he realized, not just to keep reading, but to understand.

He would do his best to heed it.


	39. Situation Report

**Situation Report**

John settled down in his chair again, one hand wrapped around Sherlock's fingers.

"Hey, Sherlock," he muttered, looking up from the phone. "What with your lost memories – do you want me to read this aloud? Can you actually hear me?" He scrutinised the face for a full minute, but there was no movement at all. Not even a twitching muscle. John sighed and opened the next document. "I'll read it aloud from now on, okay? You can complain later. Or not."

* * *

_John,_

_In the following, I will report on the completion of my first task. After several months of preparation and gathering information on Moriarty's net, the course of action was finally determined and planned out. I have tried to supply all the facts while leaving out the tedious details. _

* * *

John frowned at Sherlock. "What do you mean, you left out the tedious details? I hope you didn't leave out all the fun parts!"

His protest was answered by a warning sound from the heart monitor. John jumped and stared at it – but the momentary arrhythmia had passed.

He pursed his lips. "Sherlock, don't give yourself a heart attack over a word of criticism, OK?" He raised an eyebrow. "Right, your first task. Let's see. I'll read it to you, okay? I mean, if you have nothing better to do than lounge around like a sloth, you might as well listen to me." John cleared his throat. "Here we go."

* * *

_Location:_

_Moscow, Russia; Moscow International Business Centre; skyscraper under construction, 35th floor _

_Time: _

_January 23; around midnight_

_Environmental conditions:_

–_12°C, wind speed 10 km/h, cloudy, snow expected_

_Target:_

_Alexander Isakov; assassin; former member of Spetsnaz GRU (special forces, Russian military intelligence service)_

_Task:_

_Take out target via precision-rifle_

_I managed to locate Alexander Isakov, the sniper trained on Mrs Hudson. Handing him over to the authorities was not an option: as a former member of the special forces of the Russian military intelligence service, he was also a member of the Russian mafia and thus virtually untouchable in his own country. Extradition or a transfer to Britain was not feasible; I neither had the means nor the time to attempt this. After a lengthy period of investigation, I was able to learn the details of his next assignment and took him out while he himself was preparing to kill his own target._

* * *

Huffing, John looked up. "Really, Sherlock, this is a no-go." He shook his head in exasperation. "Jesus, this is a bloody hot topic: killing a killer! And what do you do? Sorry, Sherlock, but this' gotta be the world's most boring thriller. Yep, you've invented a new genre: the _duller._" John groaned. _"_You obviously have a completely different notion of _tedious_."

Grumbling, John read the report again. It struck him that Sherlock hadn't given a year – did it mean that at the time he was confident that this would not be a question? That he would return within the next months, rendering supplying the year a _tedious detail_? It was possible.

John skimmed through the report one more time. Sherlock had supplied all the facts, or so he said; but what did this mean? There was not a single word on how he felt when killing the man, whether he was exhilarated, shaken or indifferent.

He sighed wearily. "Really, Sherlock, you executed the would-be murderer of Mrs Hudson, a cold-blooded assassin, an ex-army member and mafia-killer about to commit another murder, and all you can come up with is _that you took him out_. Brilliant." John rolled his eyes. "If you ever complain about my blog again, I'll hit you with my laptop. With that kind of writing style, my blog wouldn't get more than eleven readers, half of them accessing the site by accident, the others out of pity. Sherlock, don't take it personal, but you should stick to your two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash."

He looked at the report again, trying to read between the lines. "Okay," he muttered, "so what are you really telling me, Sherlock?" He tried to imagine how Sherlock would read the report. What would he make of the facts? Frowning, he looked at the information more carefully.

Moscow, in January, at night – so, freezing cold. He was where? Oh, on a construction site in the new business district. More precisely, high up on a half-constructed skyscraper – so probably just a steel-and-concrete-skeleton at this point. With the wind at 10 km/h at that height and temperature along with the expectation of snow, waiting for an assassin – waiting a long time, certainly, to make sure he'd be there before the bugger showed up … Jesus, that sounded pretty uncomfortable. John wondered at what distance Sherlock had been from his target – the wind would make it difficult to aim properly and he must have been freezing up there.

He let out a deep breath, looking at the still figure. "Sherlock, just so that you know, I would have been very interested in the tedious details, you idiot. Particularly in what was going through your mind while you were waiting, probably crouched on a wind-swept skyscraper, about to make your first kill. What where you thinking? Were you anxious? Lonely? You must have had qualms about killing the sod or you wouldn't have considered extradition. Am I right?" He shook his head again at the abominable story-telling skills of his friend.

Looking at the test again, he realised he hadn't reached the end of the document yet. There was more. Hastily, he scrolled down.

* * *

_John,_

_I'm miserable. Frustrated. Angry. Ready to break something._

_Mycroft is an idiot. He suggested this whole writing thing to me and IT DOESN'T WORK. To be honest, Mycroft is not an idiot, but a bastard, and a meddling one. A manipulating, scheming, devious bastard. He said writing about what I was doing would make me feel better – the opposite is the case. Whereas before, I was simply tired and – I don't know, lonely? – now I'm furious at my inability to express myself. _

_I have read and re-read the report twenty-three times, and I have rewritten it seventy-six times. I have deleted all versions except the first. It took me the entire flight from Moscow to Oslo, and I only left it as it is because by the time I was editing the seventy-seventh version, we were approaching Oslo Lufthavn and I had to turn off the laptop._

_Mycroft told me to stop complaining and keep writing, since I can always delete it later. He has a point there. _

_John, I will never, ever complain about your blog again, or mock your slow typing. Despite all my fast typing, my output is zero. I had no idea how difficult it is to weave fact with feelings and still tell a comprehensible story. The facts are of course not the problem; but I have tried to read the report as you would read it and found it completely insufficient and extremely dissatisfying._

_Strictly speaking, this is not my fault but yours – your inability to make your own deductions forces me to spell out everything. Moreover, that has produced another problem. I find language inadequate to express the processes of my mind, in particular the more irrational ones. Again, this is neither my fault nor that of the language – it is only a problem because you are interested in reading about something best left unexpressed: sentiment. _

_However, I know you will want to read precisely about this, i.e. feelings and emotions; those over-rated, irrational fluctuations of the biochemical system, and knowing you, I have to be extra careful about what I write since I'm sure you'll get it all wrong because you don't know how to focus on the important stuff. (There you have it. I will delete that later. It sounds rather impolite.)_

_Describing what goes through my mind is like scooping up tendrils of mist – faintly tangible, but impossible to hold on to. I lack practice, I loathe it, and I find it tedious. No, that's not true, I find it … unsettling. It is a pointless undertaking and a waste of time. _

_Yet, I promised you to do this, so I will, and I will improve my writing skills. I just have to dedicate myself to the task. Given how many hateful tasks I have to complete anyway, this is still my favourite since it is for you. _

_Hope you're okay. _

_S_

* * *

John stared at the phone, blinking. Sherlock was going to write about feelings? Oh dear. He already sounded as frustrated as a three-year old ready to throw a tantrum. He grinned. "Yeah, Sherlock, just blame it on me, nothing changed then, it's my fault that you can't express feelings." He halted, looking up. "No, hang on, that's not true, you'd be quick to point out my error – you say it's my fault that I'm _interested_ in your feelings, so you have to write about them." He smiled fondly at the still figure. "You're right. My fault. And I'm proud of it. I'm not sorry that I'm interested in your emotional well-being. That's what friends do, you know."

He thought for a moment. "I think you know, now. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to write about it. But I wasn't sure, you see – I mean, after what you did to me, making me watch the fall …" He stopped himself. This was not the time to accuse Sherlock.

He skimmed through the text and smiled again, pride blooming in his chest. "So, you finally recognise all the hard work I put into that blog, huh?" He stood up and bent over Sherlock's face. "Appreciation from Sherlock Holmes! God, I could kiss you for this," he grinned sheepishly, "but don't worry, I won't; it's unfair when you can't defend yourself." He laughed and gently touched his friend's forehead, where it had been marred by blood after the fall. His smile faded at the memory of that horrible day; when Sherlock's body had hit the ground with a dull thud and a sickening crack, John's life had ended as well.

He swallowed hard. "Wake up, Sherlock. Please. We need to talk."


	40. Touchy

**A million thanks for your reviews … I really don't know what to say.**

* * *

**Touchy**

John woke from a slight change in light: it was dawning. Very slowly he surfaced from a paralysing sleep that left him drained. Even before he was fully awake, his eyes wandered to the screens, checking Sherlock's vital signs. No change. Only now did his brain register the message from his own body: a crick in the neck, a stiff back and one arm completely numb – the one that still held on to Sherlock's hand. "Oh, hell," John mumbled, "I fell asleep in the bloody chair." He carefully flexed his fingers – soon enough, he was rewarded with searing pain in his blood-starved muscles.

"Morning, Sherlock," he mumbled, his voice as raspy as Sherlock's breathing. "Looks like a typical London day – could rain any moment." Bending over his friend, he checked for any signs of consciousness, but found none. Sherlock's lips were cracked, he noticed, and he had a hint of stubble on his chin and upper lip. That made him look at his own reflection in the window.

Appalled, John stumbled backwards. He looked as if he had been on drinking binge – eyes red and puffy, hair messed up, stubble on chin and cheeks. Was it really that long that he had shaved and showered? He sniffed surreptitiously under his armpits – ouch, irrefutable proof.

He turned back to Sherlock. "Listen, Sherlock, I need to shower. Urgently. Let me just get you something for your cracked lips, then I won't bother you any longer with my less than fresh smell." He rummaged around until he found the balm and applied it carefully. "There you are. The nurses will be in any moment, I think you're also due for a bed bath and a shave."

He suddenly realised that for the first time he would not be present when the nurses took care of Sherlock – so far, he had always talked him through everything as if he were awake, even lending a hand most of the time. He admittedly felt a bit ridiculous doing it, and it earned him a lot of sidelong glances, but as long as he had the slightest suspicion that Sherlock was aware of his surroundings, he wanted to make him feel safe. Even if everyone thought it was silly. Or suggestive.

"All right," John muttered. "See you in a moment. Behave, okay?"

The hot shower was bliss. It not only made him feel human again, it relieved his aching joints and somehow lifted his spirits. He stayed under the warm spray much longer than intended and then took his time shaving thoroughly. A new set of scrubs was waiting for him, as well as fresh clothes – Mary's doing. He thought about calling her, but realised it was a bit early, she had been working half the night, marking exam papers. With a smile playing around his lips, he dressed and wondered what would be served for breakfast – that was an undeniable advantage of private hospitals, he thought languidly, the food was excellent and the coffee strong and fragrant.

If only Sherlock could appreciate it. But he was dependent on a feeding tube, and whatever they fed him bypassed his taste buds, and the mush trickling through the tube certainly did not include coffee. Maybe he should smuggle some caffeine into Sherlock's infusion system, perhaps that would wake him? He chuckled silently, aware that his mood swings still bordered the hysterical, but for once, he did not care; he gathered his things into the bag and returned to Sherlock's room, expecting to find the nurses in the middle of giving Sherlock a sponge bath, a time-consuming procedure involving lots of towels which always left behind a strange smell consisting of Sherlock's expensive triple milled soap and various hospital disinfectants.

Instead, he walked into a war zone.

He knew something was wrong the moment he entered the white corridor: the air was vibrating with tension.

And then there it was, the running and shouting that indicated an emergency – a nurse and a doctor were hastening into Sherlock's room from which the unmistakable crash of a trolley being overturned echoed through the ward, with dozens of things tumbling to the floor.

John broke into a run.

When he stormed into the room, he stumbled straight into a puddle of water, slipped and crashed right into the melee, almost falling flat on his face. With his arms flailing, he managed to grab the door handle, and clinging to the door, he pulled himself up and surveyed the situation.

Bed bath, all right. Only, the up till now comatose patient apparently objected to it: Sherlock was tossing wildly in his bed, kicking and punching rather aimlessly at anyone within reach; he was not conscious, probably could not even see anything at all since his eyes kept rolling back in his head, but he put up an impressive fight threatening to rip out his tubes; they barely managed to keep him from rolling out of bed, and even with combined forces they failed to hold him down. The nurse was yelling for restraints to tie his wrist and ankles, but none of them could let go of the raging patient.

John's mind was racing. He took in the spilled water, the sogging wet cloth, the staff trying to immobilise Sherlock. And it all fell into place.

"STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!" He roared with his parade ground voice. They all froze; even Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "Let him go," he added calmly. "Step back and simply let him be."

They looked at him dumbfounded. Sherlock delivered another vicious kick, hitting the physician painfully in the ribs.

"Do as I say," John ordered in a steely voice.

They did.

After one final turn and an arm flailing uselessly in the air, Sherlock simply ceased all movement, slumping down on his side, panting and sweating heavily, his lungs making almost gurgling sounds. The monitors blinked and beeped wildly, and blood was slowly seeping into the bed clothes where Sherlock had ripped the IV line.

"Waterboarding," John explained quietly. He looked at the nurse, dripping wet from the upended water basin. "You tried to wash his face, I assume?"

"Yes, sure," the rotund woman gasped. "We always start with the eyes, it's standard procedure-"

"I know," John nodded. "So you took a towel, soaked it in water and began wiping his eyes. In doing so, you accidentally covered his mouth or nose."

"Well, possibly, but only for a moment-" she huffed indignantly.

"I know, it's all right," John held up his hands, appeasing. "I'm only trying to explain what happened. Your patient was recently subjected to waterboarding. Are you familiar with this kind of torture?"

The physician nodded, but the two nurses looked confused.

John sighed. "It is one of the most vicious kinds of torture because it leaves no mark on the body and looks like nothing to the outside if it's done carefully. The person to be tortured is held down, a cloth is placed over mouth and nose, and then a small amount of water is poured onto it, triggering the gag reflex and making the victim choke. The captive experiences the agony of drowning, over and over again. It can result in all kinds of injuries or none at all – but the trauma remains for the rest of your life."

The nurse blanched, looking at Sherlock, who just lay on his side, still breathing far too quickly. "Is it really that bad …"

"Have you ever accidentally walked into a washing line full of wet laundry?"

"Yeah, I have," the other nurse interjected, "into a silk scarf. It was quite a shock, really!"

"Then you have a small glimpse of what it's like." John gave her a wry smile.

"I didn't know, I'm so sorry," the rotund woman whispered. "I never meant to-"

"It's all right," John repeated. "It's not your fault. Really not. Now, let's get to work."

John approached Sherlock carefully. "Sherlock, can you hear me? It's John. You're all right, no one means any harm to you. You had a bit of a flashback, but it's fine now. I'm going to clean you up, don't struggle, OK? Just let me do this." He kept talking quietly as he began examining Sherlock, and although his patient gave no sign of recognition, he remained calm. Too calm, John noted: he had lapsed back into his inert state.

Puzzled, John stared down at Sherlock, now on his back again, his face pale and impassive. It was weird. Sherlock's reactions – or rather the lack of them – did not fit the the Glasgow coma scale. At all. He let out a puff of air. "Well, at least we now know that he does notice his surroundings and that he is indeed capable of reacting to stimulus."

The physician quirked an eyebrow at him. "Apparently, the coma is not as deep as we previously thought. We need to reassess him."

John smirked. "Good luck with that."

They performed the full test, checking eye, verbal, and motor response, but Sherlock came out as before: response zero.

"I don't understand!" the physician exclaimed in frustration. "How can he be at least on level 4, and then retract to 1 the next instance! It doesn't make sense!"

John chuckled. "Sherlock would simply tell you that your rules are wrong."

The physician stomped off in a huff.

John's eyebrows shot up, almost meeting his hairline. "Congratulations, Sherlock," he casually informed his friend, "you managed to upset two nurses and insulted a renowned physician without uttering a single word and while being thoroughly unconscious. That's gotta be a record, even for you!"

Sherlock never moved.

After this incident, John assisted in every procedure Sherlock was subjected to, now being sure that Sherlock was aware of his presence. He helped the nurses change the wound dressings, most of the time disinfected the catheters himself, turned Sherlock on his side, rubbed lotion into his skin, went through a whole range of motion exercises with him and even learned how to give a bed bath. He was extra careful when cleaning his face, wary of triggering another flashback, but Sherlock remained impassive.

John was always there and kept talking to him, assuring him of his presence, guiding him through every step of the treatment, making him feel safe. At least, he hoped he did.


	41. Letters from the Cold

**Letters from the Cold**

Another dawn – the first hint of light turned London into a watercolour world. Shades of blue and grey blended with the mist shrouding the Thames. Steam was rising from the rooftops, and the first flocks of crows crossed the sky.

John yawned and went over to Sherlock's bed instantly, his legs stiff, spine cracking, mind foggy from a sweaty nightmare. "Hey, Sherlock, good morning. Hope you slept better than I did," he quietly remarked. John took his hand and kneaded it, flexing the long fingers and stroking the palm with his thumb. Frowning, he realised that Sherlock's skin was warmer than expected. A look at the monitor confirmed his suspicion: his body temperature was slightly elevated. "Don't you dare get another infection," John muttered darkly. "After your stunt with ripping the central line, you've caused quite enough trouble." At least his breathing sounded good, given that he was recovering from a collapsed lung and pneumonia.

He picked up Sherlock's phone and opened the next document. "Ready for a new chapter of your memoirs, Sherlock? Oh." John raised his brows. Another picture. "You do know me well, don't you?" He squinted at the too small photograph: Sherlock's face again, frowning at the camera, collar up and scarf around his neck, though this time the light was harsh, deepening the lines on his forehead and making him look older. His fairly short hair was almost blond, with a tinge of red.

Hair-dye or just the artificial light? It certainly looked convincing.

The background was some featureless white surface, and Sherlock looked as frustrated as he had sounded in his last message. "Here we go," John muttered, scrolling down to the text.

* * *

_John,_

_I'm in Oslo. The picture was taken on the flytoget, the express train travelling from the airport to the city. I've decided to look more like a Scandinavian here, the hair colour is correctly reproduced in the picture. I pass as a half-Norwegian business man grown up abroad – my Norwegian has a slight accent, after all. _

_I'm still frustrated with my inability to enunciate precisely what I want to express in this diary, but that is a minor matter right now. _

_I'm on the trail of Kjetil Bjerkeholmen, a business magnate, or to be more precise, the co-owner of a multinational company that manufactures medical equipment; he is also the board member of a company that belongs to a huge pharmaceutical group. Needles to say their dealings are shady at best. More notably, I have evidence that Bjerkeholmen is involved in fiscal fraud (about which I don't care at all), semi-legal drug trials in Africa (about which I care little) and illegal organ trafficking in Eastern Europe and South America (about which I care strongly). I'm sure you know about people being kidnapped and waking up with one kidney or both eyes missing – if they are lucky. Sometimes more's missing and they don't wake up, but I believe that is just a different kind of luck._

_Bjerkeholmen was in fact the man who had hired Isakov (the sniper trained on Mrs Hudson) for that job in Moscow, and this is how I came across him. When I took out Isakov, he was about to shoot two of Bjerkeholmen's fiercest competitors in illegal organ trade in Russia. They were in the building opposite, having a secret business meeting that wasn't quite so secret anymore. _

_It's a pity. Looking back, I deeply regret not having eliminated Isakov _after_ he had finished the job, thus ridding the world of two undesirable members of the human species. _

_There's always something._

_Hope you're safe and sound. _

_S_

* * *

"Jesus," John muttered, "nice business trip to Oslo, then? Did you catch that Bjerkhollow-what's-his-name bastard? God, I hope so." Intrigued, he opened the next document. Again, a picture, Sherlock squinting at the camera, face screwed up at the winter sunlight of the Oslo Fjord, or so John imagined. He was, in fact, wearing a woolly hat and a parka that made him look much younger and less arrogant. John chuckled. "Never thought I'd see sporty Sherlock! You certainly pass as a Norwegian, with your height and those sea-green eyes." He mulled over the picture for a while, then cleared his throat. "I hope you got the guy. Really."

* * *

_John,_

_It turns out Bjerkeholmen has travelled to Helsinki in the meantime, so I'll follow him to the capital of Finland. To get the final proof, I need access to his laptop. However, I have time to kill in Oslo, the plane leaves tomorrow morning, apparently the unexpected amount of snow is causing immense delays. Therefore, I have decided to do something I would not normally do: go sightseeing. _

_Go on, laugh at me. I only do it because I heard your voice in my head, scolding me for my impatience and brooding over my laptop in my hotel room, working myself into a dark mood. So, I have decided to take your advice, get a proper meal of the best smoked salmon and potatoes, admire the blue light of the Oslo Fjord, take a walk in the Vigeland Park, and then get a good night's sleep. _

_Hope your sleep is not too troubled._

_S_

* * *

"Sightseeing? You?" John guffawed. "What - wait – you were hearing my voice in your head? Does that mean you missed me?" He raised his brows. "God knows I missed you, Sherlock." Frowning he hesitated for a moment.

"Sherlock," John suddenly added in a steely voice, "why the hell did it take my _absence_ for you to actually listen to me?" Confused, he rubbed his eyes. "Well, anyway, I'm glad all my nagging finally found its way into your brain. Huh. Okay, so, did you enjoy your time as a tourist?"

* * *

_John,_

_I am back in my hotel room. The tour around the city was informative. The food was – by all standards – good; with you nagging me to eat up, I would actually have enjoyed it. I suppose the waiter was rather disappointed by my lack of appetite. Not that I care._

_I made an unsettling discovery, however: I seem to be so used to your company that I do not enjoy myself on my own anymore. I have to keep myself from soliloquising, used to explaining my deductions as I am. Without your erroneous observations and your frequent expressions of appreciation for my superior intellect, strolling around a city has become an unexpectedly tedious business. From the start, I have been acutely aware of the fact that your absence during hazardous endeavours is a significant disadvantage; however, I was not aware that I have become dependent on your company even during the most mundane undertakings. It is pathetic, really. _

_But what sours my mood much more is Mycroft. _

_He has warned me not to get sidetracked. Bjerkeholmen has no direct connection with Moriarty, at least not in the sense that it is vital to neutralise him in order to ensure your safety and my return. I simply stumbled across his criminal activities via Isakov. More so, my attempts to bring him to justice pose a considerable risk to myself – if I get caught, he will undoubtedly kill me. Worse, if it becomes known that I am still alive, they will kill you, John._

_I hate to say it, but Mycroft is right. I have sent Mycroft all the evidence I have gathered so far, but it will not suffice to convict Bjerkeholmen. Yet, I am determined to finish the task I have set myself, even if it means delaying the attainment of my primary goal and thus my return; even if it means endangering you. _

_I will stop Bjerkeholmen's activities._

_Why? _

_I believe you would approve. _

_S_

* * *

John's heart sank. This sounded more like the Sherlock he had encountered after his return. Driven, determined to the point of self-destruction. And yet, Sherlock was right, John would have approved of his actions – if there was a chance of stopping the activities of a man involved in illegal organ trafficking and cold blooded murder, he would have told Sherlock to go for it with all his heart.

He suddenly heard Lestrade's voice echoing in his mind: _Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one_.

"You're a good man, Sherlock," John said quietly, curling his fingers around Sherlock's hand. "Believe it or not. And there's nothing pathetic about wanting to be with your friends. Nothing pathetic at all."


	42. Defeated by Biscuits

**Hello my dear readers, just one chapter today, my next exam is looming ahead (ugh) and I completely underestimated how much time editing takes … one of the many things I've learnt with this story! **

**As always, thank you.**

* * *

**Defeated by Biscuits**

There was no doubt now: Sherlock was running a fever.

They managed to keep it low, but John sighed and groaned and worried himself silly. He took the blood and urine samples himself and assisted with all other examinations, trying to determine the source of the infection. He watched as yet another massive dose of antibiotics dripped into Sherlock's blood, wary of an allergic reaction.

He breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out that Sherlock had not developed some major complication but struggled with an infection of the urinary tract caused by the Foley catheter – that was bad enough, but almost unavoidable when the catheter was in place for a longer period of time.

For once, Sherlock responded well to the treatment.

"Jesus," John sighed, "I'm glad you're not awake right now. UTI _hurts_, and you'd be unbearable."

Sherlock was lying on his side, and John gently dabbed the sweat from his face and neck. Folding the wet towel into a mitt, he slipped it under the blanket and softly rubbed down Sherlock's back, massaging his stiff muscles. The coma was taking its toll: his cheeks were sunken and his skin had that papery look John could not help but associate with death.

Later, he settled in his chair again and took out the phone. "So, how did it go in Helsinki? Did you get that bastard involved in organ trafficking?"

He scrolled down. Another picture: looking the same as in Oslo on the train, but Sherlock wore his hunter's expression, a look of fierce determination. Quite scary, John decided.

* * *

_John,_

_I have landed at Vantaa airport (very relaxed security and even more relaxed employees, yet efficient) and I'm in a cab on my way to Helsinki. Bjerkeholmen is sure to stay in the most prestigious hotel, the Kämp. In comparably small cities such as Oslo or Helsinki, it is much easier to gather information – really, there are not that many places where the rich spend their time. I'm going to break into his hotel suite tonight while he is dining with an escort girl; I will have to be quick since Bjerkeholmen does not waste much time on preliminaries. He'll be in his bedroom with her soon enough._

_I am slightly uneasy and in a hurry to finish this task, considering this whole business does not get me any closer to returning home. _

_I miss Baker Street. Very much. And … your praise. It seems solving puzzles does not hold the same thrill it used to – no, I'm not being precise: it does hold the same thrill, but I'm deprived of my reward. _

_Ever the addict. It seems I found a new drug._

_S_

* * *

Shocked, John looked up: "What do you mean, a new drug? Sherlock? Are you taking anything?" Horrified, he turned to the diary again.

_PS: Don't be silly. Your praise is my drug, John. Really, you're so predictable …_

"Huh," John snorted. "You have me all figured out, haven't you? Sherlock,"John looked up again. "You were doing the right thing. Even if it delayed you. Just wanted you to know that." John cleared his throat. "So how did the mission go? Huh …"

* * *

_John,_

_Waiting is certainly the most hateful thing about being on a mission. _

_I went down to the South Harbour, (Etäläsatama – by the way, Finish is an interesting language, and they do make decent coffee in Helsinki). I was watching the huge ferries going to Stockholm and that reminded me of my childhood … we were on a ferry once, and my memories are not fond – I almost fell overboard and I got a thrashing for my curiosity – the only good thing about it was that my parents blamed Mycroft. But this does not matter here. I just mention it because the wretched memory made me think of home and Baker Street, and it made my heart beat faster, but it also made me … sad, I guess, for I had originally planned to return around this time. I am nowhere near that._

_I'm standing on the steps of Helsinki cathedral (beautiful outside, disappointing inside – they've even screwed the man-sized cast iron candle holder to the ground – who would run off with that?)._

_I think about how odd the huge chimneys of the ferries look, visible even here, sticking out above the rooftops, marring the sky with clouds of black soot. I'm wondering about the emission of dust particles, and I may have an idea for an interesting experiment, but this will have to wait until I'm back at Baker Street. I'll note it down._

* * *

John chuckled. "I hope you still know about the experiment, you can do it once you've moved back in. Just, Sherlock, don't set off the smoke alarm again, okay? You know how it scared Mrs Hudson last time." John smiled and turned back to the phone.

* * *

_I'm rambling. I can't believe it. (I can delete it later. I will). _

_John, I apologise, I have been so focused on what I'm doing that I completely neglected to explain what it is I'm doing. I do get lost in my mind sometimes, failing to explain myself, I'm sure you remember. Without your interruptions and your demands to fill you in on the seemingly obvious, my mind just runs away with this endless torrent of thoughts._

_It is quite simple, actually. Of course, I cannot take out all of Moriarty's net. What I need to do is rather straight forward: eliminate anyone who knew about us and Moriarty's threat. However, finding the respective culprits is not as easy as I thought, and I keep stumbling over information on all kinds of illegal activities. I pass it on to Mycroft, but now he is the one who demands that I take on jobs that are not relevant for my return. I guess my meddling brother considers me a windfall – a dead man stalking criminals. Very useful indeed. _

_My plans for tonight are set, now I have to wait, and I can't do it in my hotel room, because I would spend the time staring at google earth images of London, and then I would try to hack into the surveillance cameras to get a look at Baker Street and possibly … it is distracting. So I went for a walk again, and I find myself standing at the tip of Katajanokka, a peninsula – kataja meaning juniper, but there's no juniper here, just icebreakers; what a simple technology, yet impressive. _

_The days are very short at this time of the year, but it is sunny, with a bright sky, and the harbour is full of floating ice. What makes it uncomfortable, however, is the wind – it seems to cut into the skin and feels much colder than the minus 10 degrees. _

_I found myself missing London's winter greyness, slush and fog and all._

_I have to go. It's time. Wish me luck. _

_S_

* * *

John watched Sherlock lying there, oblivious. 'Missing London,' he thought. 'You sound lonely, there, in that cold town.'

"You're back now, Sherlock," he said aloud. "You're home. I promise. Fog and all."

Sighing, he opened the next document and was about to start reading, when he stopped, staring at the text. "Sherlock, I'm not sure you want to hear this," he remarked quietly, feeling his heart sink. "Looks like that mission didn't go too well. But you need to know, don't you?"

* * *

_John_

_it went all wrongI'm all right biw# now_

_at least not blrrinh ## bleedig anymore Bjerkeholmen is dead but so is the girl_

_I killed her I –_

_my fault_

_I din't mean to, it was an accident her eyes –_

_I'm rambling it feels my mind is boiling imgaes burnt intio my brain –_

_mx fingers cant type proper_

_need to calm down. _

_Its no use, if I get worked up Ima only goin to pass out again so I'll try to be coherent and tell you what happenned facts not sentiment that should heöü help._

_TYPE PORPERLY FOT GODS SAKE1_

_Bjerkeholmen did not keep any useful information in his hotel suite. Mycroft's reconnaissance was useless! Instead, Bjerkeholmen had been invited onto the private yacht of a Russian magnate – the yacht was lying in the South Harbour, opposite the old market hall, and this was were he kept his laptop and everything he needed to do business. Apparently, he was about to conclude a big deal with the Russian, but I ruined it._

_I managed to make the whole disaster look like a break in gone wrong, I don't think they're on to me. But I am now on to the Russian._

* * *

John stopped reading and looked up at Sherlock, a sense of dread filling him. "I'm sorry you were so shaken. Must have gone terribly wrong. Mycroft really wasn't up to his standards, huh? But you have to grant him that he is forced to rely on other people, and they are mostly idiots."

John skipped ahead before reading aloud – and spluttering, he reached for his glass of water, taking great gulps. "Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered. "Okay, here we go."

* * *

_It was appallingly easy to get on board the yacht – only because we were in Helsinki and no one was supposed to know, the Russian pretending to be an innocuous business man, and he must have done a good job if he escaped Mycroft's notice. I'll have a word with Mycroft over this._

_Anyway, I went on board and hid in the guest bedroom, biding my time. The Russian was supposed to arrive later at night, so Bjerkeholmen enjoyed his date at leisure. He did so quite loudly, and it turned out the man has a taste for erotic asphyxiation – very useful to me, since he made the prostitute tie him to the bed post and put a plastic bag over his head. That saved me a lot of work, and more importantly, no one would be suspicious about any kind of noise. All I had to do was walk out of the closet, put a hand over the girl's mouth, plunge the needle with the anaesthetic into a muscle and wait until she passed out. Very neat. Irene Adler knew why she relied on the method._

_Admittedly, the _putting 'the hand over her mouth'_ did not work so well because her mouth was busy with a certain part of Bjerkeholmen's anatomy, but then again she was so focused on her task that she never noticed me, and I simply jabbed the needle into her upper arm. She stiffened for a moment, biting down hard, but the anaesthetic worked promptly, which was fortunate for Bjerkeholmen, because she went limp before biting anything off. His scream was impressive, though. But, as predicted, no one was bothered by it._

* * *

John coughed. "No one was bothered by it? Are you joking? I bet Bjerkeholmen was very much bothered by it, Sherlock!" John took a deep breath and tried not to imagine how that bite must have felt. Bjerkeholmen may have been a criminal, but really … John involuntarily squirmed in his chair. He turned back to reading again, then suddenly halted. He stared at Sherlock. Had he just moved his eyelids?

"Have you just moved your eyelids?" he dumbly repeated what his mind supplied. He put the phone aside and bent over Sherlock. "I bet you were rolling your eyes at me, weren't you?"

He waited and watched.

"Yes!" John exclaimed. "You definitely just moved your eyelids! Can you do that again? Or better, open your eyes?"

He stood and stared, but nothing happened. "Well," he growled with frustration. "Shouldn't get my hopes up, should I? Back to the book, then. Pardon, phone."

* * *

_I searched the room and found what I had come for; I packed Bjerkeholmen's laptop and phone into my rucksack and erased all traces of my presence. Funnily enough, Bjerkeholem's death would have passed for an accident. All I needed to do was tighten the collar around his neck until he asphyxiated – which is exactly what I did, and he complied promptly. _

_No, I do not have any regrets, John – he stole other people's organs and there was no way I could have sent him to prison. It was an efficient way of solving a problem._

_I had to get the prostitute off the boat, however – it was likely that she would be killed as punishment for her accident on the job, and I could not risk her revealing my participation. My original plan had been to simply tie and gag her, leaving her behind. The circumstances would have pointed to a burglary or a competitor eliminating Bjerkeholmen, but now the blame fell on her. _

_Unfortunately, dragging a tall and rather plump Swede (she belonged to the Swedish speaking minority of the Finnish population) all over the boat without being noticed proved fairly difficult. I would have managed – but the anaesthetic wore off too quickly. I have no valid explanation for this; maybe I miscalculated her body mass, or, more likely, she had a drug history, and possibly a high metabolism, processing the anaesthetic too quickly. In any case, she stirred and started screaming at the top of her voice instantly, despite being barely conscious._

_This finally attracted the attention of the guards. I found myself fighting two Russian thugs while dragging the kicking and screaming girl on deck. How she managed to get to the knife in my pocket, I do not recall – but she certainly knew how to use it. Had she been more coordinated, she would have succeeded in killing me; instead she just slashed along the side of my head, causing a profusely bleeding wound, which was extremely annoying because it obscured my vision._

_I have a gap in my memory here: somehow, we both went overboard. As you recall, John, it was winter and the harbour was full of sheets of floating ice. I hit my head; it took me a while to come to and when I did, I was sinking down fast, so I had to abandon the rucksack. When I surfaced, she was already dead, her upper body lying on a floe, arms splayed, her eyes the same colour as the greenish ice. They had shot her in the chest. _

_I managed to dive between the sheets of ice and exited the water further down, hidden between boats; my escape route took me straight across the local park (Kaivopuisto) and into Eira, a rather expensive quarter with newly built high-rise residential buildings, where I managed to hide easily._

_John, the mission was a disaster, and I alone am to blame. I eliminated Bjerkeholmen, but I lost his laptop and phone in the harbour along with the data, the prostitute died because of me, and my identity was almost revealed. I can only eradicate my failure by taking down the Russian magnate. Mycroft will certainly agree. Hopefully, he will provide better reconnaissance and more resources now._

_Take care, John. I'm sure you have never been as incompetent on your job as I proved to be tonight. (And forgive the spelling mistakes, my hands are shaking. From the cold, obviously.)_

_S_

* * *

John stared at Sherlock, lying on his side, walled in by pillows, and impassive as always. He leaned forward and ran his fingers along the scar hidden under his curls. "Now I know where you got that from," he muttered darkly. "And you have plenty more. But I still can't figure out what caused the bruise under your eye – and it's bloody persistent to be still visible. Are you going to tell me eventually?"

Sherlock was breathing rather heavily, his mouth open, and he – hold on! John jumped up, flung the phone aside and knelt down next to Sherlock's face. "You were moving your eyes, I saw it," he whispered. "Do it again, please. Sherlock."

Nothing happened. John tried to calm his racing heart, but he was certain that this had not been just a random movement or a reflex. Gently, he placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek, speaking quietly. "Sherlock, I wish I could have been there in Helsinki. If we had done this together, it would not have gone wrong. It was not your fault, you idiot – how were you supposed to accomplish a one-man-mission like that? Stop blaming yourself."

And there it was again: a twitch of the eyelids, and the brows almost drawing into a frown.

John grinned. "Are you objecting to me touching your cheek? Too sentimental, eh?" He took his hand away. "I know you hear me. Just come out of your shell, Sherlock; come home. Please."

He knelt next to him a little longer, then returned to his chair. "Tell me, how did you do after your dive in the freezing water? Most people would have died, you know. But you're not most people, of course." He picked up the phone again.

_PS: Several days have passed and I am still in Helsinki. This is exceedingly frustrating, but as much as I long to go to Russia, I am not yet fit to do so. Being ill is so tedious. A snail could outrun me, and probably outthink me as well. My biggest achievements today were getting to the loo without passing out, and making a cup of tea in less than ten minutes. _

_John, if this is what old age feels like, I prefer to die young._

_Ugh, wheres the blooody bowl…_

_There goes the tea. _

_And the biscuit._

_And … whatever that was._

_God, my transport is defeated by Twinings and tea biscuits …_

_Another cup then. No biscuits this time._

_PS: I promised to write to you about my feelings, and again, I have failed. _

_All I can say is that my fever dreams were plagued by the image of her corpse on the ice, but that's not what horrifies me. It is this: the very likely possibility that you see my dead eyes and the blood on the pavement in your nightmares now. This is my fault. Mine alone._

* * *

"No, Sherlock, it's Moriarty's fault," John said quietly. "But you're back now." He gently tucked a sweat-soaked curl behind Sherlock's ear, whispering. "Wake up. I'll make you all the tea you want and I won't leave you fighting on your own, be it illness or criminals."

Another twitch of the eyelids, and a distinct frown this time.

John smiled.


	43. Light

**As always: thank you.**

* * *

**Light**

The next day, Sherlock began to make small movements. It started with a twitching finger, a frown, an arm flexing and extending to the side. Soon, the movements were more frequent and less erratic, then almost fluent until he hardly ever held still at all.

He became agitated when nurses and doctors touched him, rolling away, kicking and lashing out. It was the first time he showed intense and deliberate activity after the episode with the bed bath, and he seemed just as unhappy about being touched as he had back then. The doctors considered restraining him, afraid he might hurt himself, but John forbade it, only putting up the side rails to prevent Sherlock from falling out of bed.

John was thrilled but did not show it, knowing it was too early to get his hopes up. He noted, however, that Sherlock never flinched away from him and certainly never lashed out at him, but John did not dare to touch him, afraid he might perceive the sensation as pain, which was not uncommon at this stage of the coma.

Mycroft came in and stared at his brother. However, he did not even address Sherlock, bluntly refusing Nurse June's request to talk to him. "What makes you think he will listen to me when he's never done so in his entire life?"

Sherlock's eyes opened for a few minutes, but he seemed to be unable to see anything – he neither reacted to light nor to commands. John instantly worried about blindness but kept his mouth shut. No point in worrying big brother.

But Mycroft took him aside before leaving, his brows drawn together in a deep frown. "John, is he blind? If so, why?"

For the first time, John heard naked fear in Mycroft's voice. He couldn't alleviate it, not entirely. "It's too early for a prognosis," he said calmly. "Unfortunately, with a comatose patient there's always the danger of the eyes getting damaged – they are extremely sensitive. Eye care is very important and we've done everything we can, but there are no guarantees – lack of oxygen is the biggest problem. But, Mycroft, it's not definitive yet."

"Lack of oxygen," Mycroft repeated. "As in cardiac arrest."

"We have to wait," John just said.

A few hours later, Sherlock did indeed react to light – or rather, he lashed out at the doctor who shone a pen light in his eyes, sending the instrument flying.

John rejoiced; the doctor scowled. Nurse June grinned behind his back.

Sherlock frowned, rolling his head from side to side, and finally, after hours of just moving his lips, he uttered a sound. A sound, that bore a striking resemblance to _John._

John admitted it might have been nothing more than a very vocal sigh, but he cooed over Sherlock, exhilarated; the nurses smiled at him, but rolled their eyes at Sherlock, since their patient quickly became surprisingly accurate in his movements, using his new ability exclusively to obstruct their work.

When John took out the phone and began reading aloud, Sherlock stopped moving. It was impossible to say whether he listened or had simply fallen asleep. Despite his uncertainty about what effect the revelations in the diary might have on Sherlock, John continued. He knew Sherlock needed facts desperately, regardless of what they might reveal.

And fact was: Sherlock had spiralled downwards in Russia while trying to obtain information on the Russian businessman. John's heart clenced at the words.

* * *

_John,_

_I'm in a truly black mood. I'd love to say I'm boooored, but the problem is more severe. I'm failing at everything, I'm no closer to going home despite having eliminated a number of Moriarty's henchmen, and I can feel my mind sinking deeper and deeper into depression. I don't want you to see me, therefore no picture. I have a beard, can't wash regularly, and my clothes are not worth the name. My hair is hidden under a cap plus a hood. It's greasy. Ugh._

_I'm stuck in a mouldy high-rise flat the size of a rat cage and smelling like one, too, with no proper heating; prostitutes are prowling the street, wearing shabby fur coats and impossibly short skirts with insanely high heels at freezing temperatures, putting on display all you never wanted to see. The noise of the drunks' quarrelling echoes all the way up here, and every night they find at least one homeless frozen to death in the cold. _

_There are old people, perfectly normal people who worked all their life, victims of this new era of capitalism, who have lost everything, home, family, pension; they sleep in the central station, always at the mercy of both criminals and the police. No one cares._

_There was a series of murders among the prostitutes during the last couple of weeks, but the police is as ineffective here as everywhere else. The evidence was glaringly obvious, but the police deduced absolutely nothing about the killer. I couldn't resist, I figured him out and secretly passed the police a profile and information on where and when he was most likely to strike again. Needless to say, I was right. The next corpse turned up exactly as predicted – and who was not there? The police._

_They completely ignored the information! I spent an hour ranting and raging in this rat hole until my neighbour threatened to blast the door away with a shotgun to shut me up. Well, what can I say about the magnitude of ignorance in this country … seriously, I have to grant Lestrade that, while he never understands a thing I explain to him, he does act upon my advice. When I come home, I might actually feel obliged to throw him the occasional word of praise. _

_When the police here finally heeded my advice (I had to bribe the pimps to get to them!), it took them three more murders to apprehend the serial killer. Three more corpses, John! I did not dare to catch the killer myself – too much risk of injury and subsequent discovery. As idiotic as they are here, they might have arrested me instead! _

_I have to deny myself every pleasure here, everything that offers release from the misery – and it would be so easy to go down to the corner and get some cocaine. _

_God, I want to go home. I don't know what's worse, the squalor, the stupidity, or my failure to achieve anything. _

_A shower, clean clothes, and London's imbecilic police seem like heaven now._

_Though I wouldn't mind the appalling situation so much if you were here. _

_S_

_PS: Stop worrying. I didn't shoot up._

* * *

"Jesus, Sherlock," John exclaimed. "Jesus. It must have driven you up the wall. God, if I had known you were so close to drugs …"

The infusion system beeped, and John quickly attended to it. He looked around, at the sterile environment, the spotless glass panes, the shining floor, and the immaculately white sheets. Despite Sherlock being bedridden, John had insisted on the ordeal of washing his hair every second day – getting plenty of raised eyebrows for it. Now he was glad he did.

He ran a hand through Sherlock's curls, soft and clean now. Sherlock huffed out a breath – impossible to say whether it was acknowledgement or rejection. John just smiled.

He continued with the diary and groaned when he realised that Sherlock had not been doing better several weeks later.

Guilt about the failed mission in Helsinki still haunted him, and the Russian, which he simply called Michail, was much harder to tackle than Sherlock had anticipated. He seemed to be as slippery as an eel and virtually paranoid about spies and traitors trying to get to him. He was also utterly ruthless, disposing of anyone whose loyalty he doubted in the least. Lives were cheap in Russia.

Whatever Sherlock did, he could not get closer to the Russian, and there was no way into his villa, where he kept all the records on his business dealings. The place was a veritable fortress with every state-of-the-art security system one could possibly imagine; worse: Michail trusted no-one, least of all his minions, so Sherlock could not worm his way into the place, neither by blackmailing the staff nor by plain house-breaking. He could not even get close to the place since the Russian had surveillance on the surrounding area as well, plus, he hired no new servants. After another fruitless effort to gather information, he turned to Mycroft for help.

* * *

_What annoys me most, John, is Mycroft's snide comment. He said in that smug tone of his, "What did you expect Sherlock, not a single secret service agent has ever come close to him, he owns most of the Duma and is best friends with the political leaders. What makes you think you can do better then the professionals?" _

_As if these idiots who call themselves spies could compete with me, John. _

_Or maybe Mycroft only said so to spurn me into action. He knows how to push my buttons, John, and since you are not here to caution me, I am seething with anger, plotting impossible break-ins. _

_I will prove Mycroft wrong: I am better than any of his 'professionals'. Why? I am more determined. Michail was a close associate of Moriarty, I have proof of that now. These months of patience are finally paying off, and there are clues that suggest something big's coming. Bigger than that blasted Jumbo Jet._

_I deserve a reward for my patience, a bit of motivation, I want to indulge in the illusion of going home, I need to know what I'm doing this for, I need – need to see you, need to know you're still there and not just an illusion._

_I pestered Mycroft to update me on you; he refused. I threatened to break into his security system – he knows I can – and retrieve all the information I want. He still refused, even when I threatened to steal the latest video of a member of the Royal family fornicating at a sex party to give it to the Sun. He just twanged 'even the tabloids have better taste than to publish such a poor performance, Sherlock.' Hmpf. _

_He did relent, however, when I announced I would go down to the street corner and get some cocaine. It's a matter of five minutes, here, John. (Don't worry; I wouldn't have done it: I know how much you loathe it. But that jolted him out of his complacency.)_

_Mycroft told me you were in a relationship with one Mary Morstan; and that you smiled – at least briefly – for the first time since the fall. _

_Now I know why he didn't want to update me. He thought I might be pushed over the edge by the girlfriend. He's wrong, of course. I'm glad. _

_Naturally, I harassed him into giving me all the information he had on Mary Morstan. He did, and he assured me she was perfectly acceptable, though he provided no picture. I couldn't find anything on her on the internet. She's careful, your girl; or utterly boring. _

_I am NOT jealous. But I envy her._

_Whatever, as long as she makes you smile again. If she doesn't, I hope she's at least good in bed. (Please tell me she is; I can't bear the idea of having been replaced by unalloyed mediocrity.) _

_S_

* * *

"You weren't replaced, you clot," John growled, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. This sounded so much like Sherlock, bored and annoyed, driving Mycroft up the wall. Yet he pictured him in that filthy flat, lonely and torn by impatience, plotting, but struggling with depression. John had not known that his influence on Sherlock extended beyond his presence – but clearly he had refrained from taking drugs because of John's disapproval. And what was Mycroft's role in this?

John leaned over Sherlock and studied his face, now not so still anymore: his brows were furrowed into a frown, and the corners of his mouth were twitching up and down, but never into a smile. His hands clenched and clawed into the blanket, just short of tearing the fabric.

John sighed; he looked more haunted than ever. "We'll get through this, Sherlock," John reassured him. "I promise."


	44. Alone

**And again: thank you so much for your wonderful reviews. Once again, you saved my day.**

* * *

**Alone**

"Any news on Moriarty?" John asked tetchily, watching Mycroft's face for the slightest indication of emotion. There was none. They were outside Sherlock's room, and John felt ready to burst out of his skin with tension.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "We have a trail."

"Which you follow."

"With utmost passion and diligence, I assure you." Mycroft smiled. It was false.

"But you're not telling me." John felt his anger surge.

"It is unnecessary."

"It would make me feel better to know that you're close to capturing him. That he ceases to be a threat."

"We are. He will."

John stared at Mycroft, waiting for a more elaborate answer – in vain. He struggled to dissolve the tight knot of anger in his stomach. This was not the real reason why he was furious with Mycroft – in reality, he resented the fact that Sherlock was left to fend for himself in Russia, slowly sinking into depression.

There was another reason, however: Sherlock had a bad day. He seemed stuck in whatever nightmare was going on in his mind, and today he even flinched away from John, hissing as if being touched by a branding iron. That had never happened before. Very carefully, John had put his hands over Sherlock's fingers, which clawed into the the blanket with a force that threatened to split the skin over his knuckles. He had winced at the touch, leaning away. "Relax, Sherlock, it's only me," John had murmured, and, like a mantra: "You're home, you're safe. I'm here, I'll watch over you." It had helped a bit, but the pained look had not vanished from Sherlock's face. Finally, Nurse June had called Mycroft, though John was at a loss why. Perhaps big brother had ordered her to.

"John," Mycroft drawled, "I know you are worried about Sherlock. But I did not leave him alone in Russia, and I will not leave him alone here either. He will always receive the best of care-"

"I know," John snarled. "I don't doubt that, Mycroft."

Mycroft scrutinised him carefully, probably reading every single emotion in him. "John, when Sherlock was in a dark mood, he called me. It was a huge but necessary risk. I talked to him, and then he would pull himself together and continue. He did not want to return, John, I offered it to him every time we spoke. It was his choice to stay."

"Driven by your taunting."

"No." Mycroft looked him steadily in the eyes. "Driven by the need to protect you, and the desire to meet your expectations of him."

"Now you're blaming me." John folded his arms in front of his chest, mouth set in an angry line.

Mycroft sighed. "If anybody apart from Moriarty is to blame, then it is Sherlock for choosing you and your ethics as his role-model."

"Oh Jesus," John muttered, leaning his forehead against the wall, suddenly feeling utterly defeated. "Why did you not pick him up? It's not like you refrain from kidnapping!"

"He wouldn't let me, John. Sherlock needed to succeed, for his own reasons." Mycroft frowned, staring into nothingness. He snapped out of it after a few moments. "Keep reading that diary. Tell him what you think, John. I believe he understands, if only on an instinctive level."

John rolled his eyes and turned to go as Mycroft entered Sherlock's room; for the first time, the elder Holmes actually sat down and stayed by his brother's side.

John left for a shower and a shave, then coffee in the cafeteria. After that, he called Mary – but she didn't answer the phone. John's heart sped up instantly, fear rearing its ugly head – swamped by images of Mary being captured by Moriarty, John discarded his coffee and dialled the number of the agent in charge of guarding their Kensington home. The man coolly informed him that Mrs Watson was in the kitchen, "having a quarrel with the electric juicer, it would seem," and hadn't heard the telephone. John decided to call later.

After getting another cup of coffee, he prowled the corridors of the hospital, haunted by the vision of Sherlock in a vegetative state, not conscious, unable to process his surroundings, trapped in nightmares. In many ways, today was more scary than the days of stillness and silence at the beginning of the coma – what if Sherlock never made it beyond this confused and troubled state?

He'd be in hell. They'd both be in hell.

John told himself that he was just wallowing in dark thoughts, and there was every reason to believe that Sherlock would make further progress. He was Sherlock, after all.

When he returned, Mycroft was gone, and Sherlock was calm. John stood, astonished, and watched him sleep, the pained grimace relaxed into a surprisingly peaceful expression. John did not know how Mycroft had done it, but suddenly it didn't seem so unlikely anymore that Mycroft had pulled Sherlock through his depression in Russia.

John sat down and went through the next entries of the diary. A lot of them were shorter, and Sherlock simply described how he had gathered data, made contact, infiltrated organisations, identified targets, eventually took them out. Often, it was a recording of facts rather than a description of events, sounding much more like his first entries.

After a while, John realised that Sherlock had deliberately shut out his emotions: he wasn't able to process them, so he stored them away in this big brain of his, and left them. The loneliness, the isolation, the long phases of waiting, and the futile attempts at gathering information eroded his patience, and sometimes his sanity, too, it seemed. There was one instance when his knife slipped while he tried to pry open a warehouse lock; it cut deep into his thigh, but he felt nothing. At another time, he fell ill, critically ill it seemed, and did not care whether he survived.

The entries then stopped. John worried his lip, realising that the silence meant defeat.

There was only one comment: _spoke to Mycroft. Again._

After that, the entries resumed: getting nowhere in Russia, Sherlock followed other leads, eventually travelling to Afghanistan, attempting to track down Moran. When he returned, his mood had changed.

* * *

_John,_

_I'm back in Russia. The less said about Afghanistan, the better. Only so much: I've been in the area before, and it has not improved. The trip did, however, yield relevant information. _

_For a while now I've had the growing suspicion that someone is keeping tabs on me: it seems to me, everything I do is being counteracted. Mycroft calls me paranoid and thinks I'm falling prey to my 'continued isolation' – but what else would you expect from him … he wants me to come home and go into hiding until he finishes off the rest of Moriarty's men. One reason for this is the fact that I'm not in the best of health – ever since I caught the flu, I'm struggling with chronic fatigue and some sort of diffuse pain syndrome._

_But I can't crawl back to Mycroft. I would only mope around, being unable to conclude the hunt. I need to show off when I come home, I want to prove to you that all the pain I put you and myself through was worth it - I must achieve something! And I know Michail is involved in a deal that somehow poses an immense threat to the Western world. I have an idea what this could be, but I can't tell you yet, I need more data. _

_Tonight, I intend to obtain proof that I'm not paranoid: I 'll do some housebreaking. Pardon, shipbreaking. I'll get on board a military vessel to take a look at the freight papers and find whatever trace is left of what was on board that ship. This won't be easy. If they get me, that's it. I'll be lucky to die, then._

_I hope I'll see you again in this life._

_S_

* * *

John groaned. "Sherlock, you complete nutter!" He got to his feet and started pacing up and down the room. "What gave you that bloody stupid idea that you needed to show off in front of me? Huh? As if I didn't know how brilliant your are! Having to prove yourself, or what?"

He marched back to Sherlock's bedside and planted himself in front him. "Just for the record: I would have preferred it a thousand times if you had come home to stay under Mycroft's protection. Seriously, we need to talk about this attitude of yours – it's bloody self-destructive! This constantly disregarding your – your _transport_! I mean, how can you even think of your body in such terms!" He huffed angrily and threw his hands in the air. "Jesus, Sherlock, chronic fatigue and a diffuse pain syndrome? To me, that sounds pretty much like depression. But, no, instead of accepting help, you had to prowl around in bloody Russia, sneaking on board a military ship!"

The door opened, and a concerned orderly looked him up and down. "You all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," John muttered. "Sorry. Nerves."

The orderly eyed him suspiciously. "Are you sure you don't want to take a break in the cafeteria? Or go home?"

"No, thanks. And don't worry, I won't freak out and hit him. I'm just giving him a piece of my mind since he can't tell me to shut up."

"Okay," the orderly still didn't look convinced, but retreated, softly closing the door.

John exhaled a deep sigh. "Great, now they think I'm the unreasonable one." Slumping down in his chair, he growled, "Jesus, Sherlock. Was it at least worth the risk? What the hell was on board that ship – the nuclear warhead? Really, why didn't you just tell Mycroft and let him do the spying? But no, you had to be smarter than big brother …"

Still muttering under his breath, he returned to the diary and clicked on the next folder.

A crackling sound erupted from the phone - startled, he let go, and the phone clattered to the ground. "Jesus!" he blurted, scrambling for it but failing to catch it. On the floor, the phone still gave off a static noise. "Shit, did I ruin it?" he wheezed, horrified at the idea. He picked it up gingerly, and almost dropped it again: suddenly, he heard Sherlock's voice; it took him several seconds to realise that the file was an audio recording.

"John, I'm … under a bridge, harbour district. Night time … cold. I, I'm injured, you can guess-" he tried to chuckle, but the sound turned into a rattling cough.

John sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe.

"Can't type, uhm, 'm bleeding – the ship – was a success, I – was right, it's a nuclear warhead, John, a nuclear warhead being transported to London," he breathed out in a rush, ending in another coughing fit. "I need to inform Mycroft, instead, I'm bleeding out under a bridge … 'tis ridiculous." This time, he managed a joyless laugh.

"I got mugged, John." More painful coughing, a shuffling sound, feet dragging over the ground. "I walked all over that – military vessel without anyone noticing – only to get mugged on the street. Lost the gun. Almost lost the phone. Stab wound in the right arm, bleeding profusely … tied it off more or less, but I need to get out of the cold, it's-" He broke off; a thunk was followed by heavy breathing and a barely suppressed groan.

"I can't just call Mycroft … 'course he gave me – an emergency number … but I'm being followed, I'm sure, I'm not paranoid … if I call him now they'll get me … need to … need to-"

For a full minute, nothing but laboured breathing could be heard, with the faint sound of water lapping against concrete in the background. "'m dizzy," Sherlock wheezed. "Blood loss. Tired." He swallowed audibly. "Don't even know why I'm … wasting strength on this … distraction, I guess – to keep going … it's lonely here, John." There was a strange choking sound – then the recording stopped.

_Sobbing_, John suddenly realised. Sherlock had bitten back sobs before turning off the phone – he had been crying. "Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered. Shaken, he stared at the file and considered listening to it again, just to hear Sherlock's voice, though it had felt as if someone was trying to rip out his heart. He clicked on the next folder instead. Another audio file.

Heavy breathing again. "John … managed to … crawl back … 'm in the – the flat … rathole of a flat," he added, huffing out a chuckle that turned into yet another coughing fit. John's hair stood on end at the sound of it.

"Stitched the wound – got infected, though … uhm … not enough anti…antibiotics … fever … can't tell you – the exact temp… uhm …temperature … 'cause I can't read it – can-can watch the infection … though … sp-spreads like … spider …veins-" a thump, scrabbling, fabric rustling.

John hung his head and pressed a hand over his mouth.

Another cough. "Sorry – dropped it … I'll keep … it here – next to me. John … need water … thirst … can't get up … don't know why I'm doin' this…" he trailed off, exhaling slowly. For several minutes, all John could hear were irregular breaths, underlaid with stifled groans. Had he passed out?

"… not passed out … John … huh … how-how ri-dic-ulous … hah … guess I'm just another – 'nother crime victim now. In-glori-ous … dontyathink … after all-" he broke off again, moaning and finally drawing a deep, rattling breath. "I … said I don't know – why I'm doing this … … not true … need you to know … apologise … I, I don't think I'm gonna make it … I'll rot here, John … funny … what I'll look like … in a few weeks … neighbours won't – won't notice … ha … 'til the rats … 'n maggots …"

This time, Sherlock did not manage to bite back the sobs, and John felt his stomach turn at the idea of how ill he must have been, and no one there to help him, to lift a glass to his lips or put a cold cloth on his forehead; and no one to give him enough antibiotics to battle the infection.

There was more crackling and rustling. Sherlock managed another mirthless chuckle: "'Ss stupid, really … I don't care 'bout … my corpse, don't … don't get me wrong … transport … hate this … can't keep anything down … not even water … need water … 'm crying 'cause I failed – failed … everything … useless … I'm sorry John. I'm sorry … I, I think … 'tis the last message … should delete it … shame … but can't give up now … need help … but no one's here … need you … need – to tell you …I'm sorry, John … sorry for the pain I caused … it's no magic trick now," he gasped, wheezing painfully.

Another painful chuckle. "Oh Lord, this is a disgrace," he breathed, some of the familiar disdain creeping back into his voice. "My body is … shaking with sobs and I – I can't stop it. Sssentiment," he hissed, then growled something indistinguishable into the pillow.

John groaned, quickly stifling the sound with his hand. "Sherlock …" he whispered, trailing off when Sherlock resumed speaking.

"John, on the roof … the tears were real … I, I hoped … you might realise … later … that change in voice … the apology and then … commanding you to stay – were you are … thought you might realise … later … sorry, I'm babbling … fever dreams … saw you at my grave … never thought I'd be grateful for that – that fake stone … now there's a grave at least … better for you to think so … than the truth … rotting away here … heard you … say, say: I was so alone. John … I didn't understand then … I understand now. Alone doesn't protect me – it's killing me. Literally."

John jerked upright: Sherlock had been at the cemetery? He had –

He stopped the train of thought, mesmerised by Sherlock's voice again.

"Killing … tedious business … dreadful, John … army doctor … you know all about it … I don't mind executing Moriarty's men … I made – made a mistake … young Russian soldier … by the look – peasant family, poor … surprised me – had to kill him – cut his throat … struggled, choking, horrible noise … blood, so much blood … all over me … didn't get it all out – sticks … in my hair, under my – my nails, in my skin … tried to wash it off, doesn't work, skin burns were the blood is … metallic taste, smells sweet, pungent … bit like black pudding … I-"

Gagging, followed by violent retching.

John held his breath, his own stomach clenching at the pained sounds.

He stopped the recording. Carefully, he put the phone down, got up, and bent over Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder. There was a slight frown on Sherlock's face, but nothing more – no trace of the dreaded agitation that had prompted Mycroft's visit.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, "that young Russian was a soldier – that's the risk you take when you become a soldier: you kill, and you get killed. This isn't going to make it easier for you, I know, the memory will stick with you forever, but it's not your fault. _It is not your fault, Sherlock._ Moriarty is the bad guy here, and corrupt governments and businessmen who sell illegal weapons."

He sighed and straightened up again. "And, uh, just so that you know," he swallowed, "we'll never ever have black pudding again. Not even in the fridge. I swear it." John nodded and sat down. "I'll become a vegetarian, if need be." He picked up the phone again.

The retching stopped after a while, and for long minutes all he could hear was Sherlock panting, humming slightly under his breath. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible, speech becoming increasingly slurred.

"John … need help … don't want to die … I'll just … imagine you're here … I remember … when I was ill… you were there … taking care of me … I was – lying on the sofa … didn't want my bed … didn't want – alone … you've tucked me in my woollen blanket … dimmed the lights … long shadows on the red carpet … warm glow from the fire … flames crackling … faint traffic noise … Mrs Hudson downstairs, doing the dishes … she left biscuits for me … can smell them …cinnamon and butter … I hear you in the kitchen …making tea … see your shadow move … coming closer … you're treading softly … don't want to wake me … I close my eyes … your cool hand on my forehead … you say my name … I say yours … goodbye, John."

John sat with his head in his hands, swallowing hard, biting back tears. After a few moments, he silently got up and examined Sherlock's arm – the scar was there, surprisingly inconspicuous, given that the wound had been infected. He drew a shaky breath and cleared his throat. "You've done the hell of a job stitching up that wound," he muttered for the sake of saying something. "Couldn't have done it better myself."

Very carefully, he covered Sherlock with the blanket, tucking him in. "Sherlock, I promise, when you wake up – um – I won't leave you alone. Not even if you want me to. Huh," he gave a mirthless chuckle and searched for Sherlock's hand under the blanket, holding it gingerly, still afraid he might become agitated again. Sherlock's eyelids twitched, but he did not seem to object.

"I'll go on, okay?" John said huskily and picked up the phone.

The next file was a written message again.

* * *

_John,_

_As you can see, I'm still alive. A bit worse for wear, more crawling than walking, but I managed to drag myself to a pharmacy, and I also bought some food. Took me ages, and when I came back, I passed out for an hour or so, but I managed to keep the medication down. The food was a waste, though, could have spared myself the effort, everything came up the same way it had gone down, only tasting even worse. _

_I'm OK, though. Getting better. Plenty of time to think, at least. _

_When I wasn't entirely delirious anymore, I couldn't help but wonder about you and Mary – what sort of woman she is. Your previous choices of female companions were rather deplorable, but somehow Mycroft gave the impression that Mary Morstan is of a different making, and he seemed rather … impressed. I hope I will meet her one day._

_And if I live to do so, I wonder to what extent this will change our friendship. _

_Pondering relationships, I then brooded over how dependent we are on them. We trust those we love unconditionally, and we hunger for this kind of trust, even if we don't know it until we experience it. Much to my consternation, this emotional bond can become so overwhelmingly important that being deprived of it turns into a physical pain – a truly terrifying weakness. For we would do everything to maintain this bond: steal, lie, kill._

_And there it was, the long sought-after epiphany: suddenly, I knew how to get to the Russian._

_There, John, you see, you are brilliant! You are my conductor of light, even from a distance. _

_I hope to see you soon, and Mary, too._

_S_

* * *

John looked up, puzzled. "Um, Sherlock," he said after a while, "I'm honoured to be your conductor of light, even if I have no clue what kind of epiphany that was. But, of course, as you would say, I never understand a thing of it myself – um, I'm OK with that." He raised his brows and nodded, still confused.

Fiddling with the phone, he suddenly leaned forward, and whispered directly into Sherlock's ear. "Couldn't you … I mean, couldn't you just have said that you missed me? Nooo … sentiment, right?"

He chuckled. "All right, then. I have no problem saying it: I've missed you. Badly. Still do. So, wake up, you muppet!"


	45. Sex doesn't alarm me

**A quick note on the term _muppet: _as far as I know it's British, derived from _the_ _Muppet Show_, not to be confused with _moppet,_ and a very affectionate version of idiot (at least, David Crystal says so …):-)**

**And again: thank you for your reviews.**

* * *

**Sex doesn't alarm me**

John left the ICU, took out his phone and called Mary. Waiting for her to pick up, he stood in front of a window and watched the boats on the Thames. The water was as grey as the sky, and the heavy rain reduced the buildings on the other side of the river to blotches of black and white. He was careful to avoid looking at the spot where Sherlock had fought for his life.

"Mary," he sighed when she finally picked up.

"How are you doing?" she asked without preamble.

"I'm okay," he answered automatically.

"And how is he doing?" she continued.

"Better," John sighed. "Really better – had a bad start today, but thanks to Mycroft, he's calm now. Don't know what magic big brother worked, but it did the trick. Mycroft the miracle worker," he chuckled. "Never thought I'd say so, but I'm glad he came. I -" he trailed off.

"John," Mary interrupted, "you sound shaken. To the core. What happened?"

"Nothing unexpected. It's just … there was one entry in the diary, an audio file, that was … pretty harsh." He swallowed back tears. "Sherlock was injured and, um, alone, and pretty close to dying I guess. It seems he … he imagined I was there to help him," he broke off, uncertain how to describe what he had heard.

"He's not alone now, John," Mary said, her voice firm. "And he knows it. He has a home to come back to, and so do you. He's making progress?"

"Yeah," John breathed, "but there are no guarantees."

"There never are in life, right?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "We'll just have faith in him and hope for the best. John," she continued, "do you take care of yourself? Have you eaten?"

"Yeah," he assured her. "The nurses remind me if I forget. I guess someone told them to – can't imagine who, can you?" he smiled.

"No idea," Mary chuckled. "Do you need anything else? Clothes, books, mp3 player?"

"No," he shook his head, "just needed to hear your voice." Suddenly, he laughed. "There was one entry where Sherlock mused about our relationship." He giggled. "He wrote he hoped you were good in bed."

"Ah! What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," John protested. "I'm not going to discuss my sex life with him. Not even when he's unconscious."

"Pity."

"What?"

"I had hoped for some shameless boasting."

John burst out laughing. "He wouldn't know what to do with it."

"How do you know?" Mary quipped.

John coughed. "He's a virgin, for all I know. Sex is not his area. Sentiment, and so on." John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "At least his brother assumes so, and I don't think Mycroft gets anything wrong – well, at least not in that area. Uhm. How's your fight with the juicer?" he quickly added.

"Oh, I won," Mary replied. "Wrenched the pineapple crown back out of it. Do you think Sherlock cares for smoothies? Would be a quick and efficient way to get some vitamins into him. We could get him a juicer for 221B."

John grinned. "I'm afraid he would rather use it to extract unsavoury juices from less-than-fresh body parts. Might be a nice Christmas present, though."

"Excellent. I'll put it on my list."

"What list?" John asked, confused.

"Oh, Mycroft asked me to compile a list of things I think might contribute to a healthier lifestyle once Sherlock's back at Baker Street."

"Mycroft," John repeated dumbly. "You're on first-name terms with him now?"

"Well, I could hardly refuse," Mary declared.

"Wait – what else have you got on that list?" John asked, suddenly curious.

"A dog."

"What?" John blurted.

"A dog, John. It's obvious, isn't it? He needs a companion."

"You're replacing me with a dog?" John burst out, mouth agape, and thought back to Sherlock's fear of being replaced by a mediocre woman – a human being, at least.

"Oh, that's utter nonsense, John, no one's replacing you, and you know it. Mycroft thought it was a brilliant idea."

"Uh-huh. Glad you two agree," he added lamely.

"Come on, John, it's the perfect solution – he can train the dog to sniff out god-knows-what or go after suspects, and the dog will patiently listen to his rants, get him out of the flat at least once a day, and remind him of the necessity of food and sleep. Mycroft even considered having it trained in advance, you know, like a service dog, to indicate mealtimes and the like, but I talked him out of it."

"Uh – okay. Sounds … kind of sensible. Why did you talk him out of the service dog thing?"

"The dog would get depressed."

John burst out laughing. "True. Even dogs need the feeling of success."

Mary chuckled. "Indeed."

They debated for a while what kind of dog would suit Sherlock, but realised soon enough that it would have to be genetically engineered to meet all the requirements. A stalwart creature with a modicum of intelligence and infinite patience, in any case. Mary promised to talk it over with Mycroft.

John felt a lot better when he returned to Sherlock's bedside. Sniggering, he flopped into the chair and announced: "Sherlock, we have a surprise for you: one more reason to wake up! You must be curious – and desperate to berate us for our silliness."

He leaned forward to see whether there was any reaction, but Sherlock seemed to be asleep: his face was fairly relaxed, and he was breathing evenly, despite the rattling sound in his chest. John just hoped he had not slipped deeper into the coma again, but neither was he keen on a repetition of the pained agitation from a few hours ago. They would have to wait.

"Right," John sighed. "So what did you do next? Must have taken you a while to recover from that injury."

* * *

_John, _

_I'm recovering well, and as ridiculous as it is, my next plan requires me to give the impression of health and fitness. Therefore, I have decided to go to a tanning shop to alter my – admittedly deathly – pallor to a somewhat healthier shade. _

_I have never understood why people accept the risk of melanoma and cataract for the sake of an entirely arbitrary ideal of beauty that requires a procedure which, in fact, leads to premature skin aging and thus the destruction of said debatable beauty – but then again, intellectual prowess does not seem to be the most prevalent feature of the average sunbed user._

_I now perfectly understand why the term 'tart toaster' was coined. _

_John, I told you thinking about you and Mary and relationships in general – and yes, I admit it, about the bond of our friendship – gave me the epiphany I was looking for: how to get into Michail's house and steal his secrets. It would seem the house, the man, and his minions have no weak spot._

_But his wife has. _

_She's lonely. _

_So am I._

_S_

* * *

John blew out a surprised breath. "You getting a tan? I wanna know what that looks like – but what do you mean, his wife has a weak spot? You going after her?" Muttering, he scrolled down to find a photograph of Sherlock at the end of the text. "Jesus!" John's mouth dropped and his eyes went wide as saucers. "You – you …" He failed at a description. "You have freckles?" he blurted, feeling silly instantly.

The man in the picture, lounging on a sofa in a hotel suite, was Sherlock, all right, but then he wasn't. He looked younger, his curls tamed into short waves, their colour lighter than usual; he wore a dark suit with a midnight blue shirt, no tie, an expensive but unostentatious watch, and a slim signet ring; his skin gleamed golden, his eyes were bright with barely held back energy, and he had the air of a shy but dangerous hunting-leopard. The new persona was an international businessman with the body of a male model and the eyes of a philosopher, with just the right amount of vulnerability in them to break a lonely heart. The epitome of edgy elegance and understated cool.

John frowned, puzzled. Why was the picture so alien? Sherlock's hair was not that different, just swept back, and the suit could have come from the closet at 221B; apart from the signet ring, there was nothing truly out of order.

And then it struck him. It was the absence of two things: Sherlock's customary air of superiority, and the hint of eccentricity that resided in his longish curls, his body language, and last but not least his coat. He was always impeccably dressed, but not according to the latest fashion, and he was never groomed to gleam with the sleekness of a lizard.

John raised his brows. "That poor girl, whoever she is. She stood no chance, you posh prig."

It turned out the lady was no girl, but a 46-year-old Russian matron named Irina with dozens of fur-coats in her closet, and more pearls and diamonds in her jewel case than an American film diva. The daughter of a high-ranking politician, she was well-educated and not at all stupid, and thus bored out of her mind. Irina had no other place in her husband's life than to represent him and his position, and she had also never had an affair, thanks to his paranoia. He did not really lock her up, and after 28 years of marriage he seemed to trust her to a certain extent, but she had never found anyone interesting enough to risk her husband's wrath. She was not inclined to play with fire.

"But she was inclined to play with you," John mumbled, looking at Sherlock lying in the hospital bed, looking a lot older than in the photo. And a lot less healthy.

"So, Sherlock, how did you charm her, hm? I bet with a mixture of intelligence, shyness, and relentless determination. Or did you play the knight in shining armour?"

Sherlock remained vague on the subject, but it seemed to have taken quite some time and effort on his side; apparently, in the end the lady fell for the brilliance of his mind rather than his body. Anyway, she smuggled him into the house.

* * *

_It's odd, John, but this is the safest place for her. Michail would be suspicious if she stayed anywhere else at this time – he knows all her appointments and her friends. So, no hotel, no illicit encounter at a friend's place, but straight to the dragon's den. Here I am and it unsettles me._

_It seems I cannot avoid taking her to bed. Michail's study is next to their bedroom, and she has the code to get into it (she keeps her jewelry there), so I cannot just knock her out. I need her to open the door and I know how: Michail collects stone age artefacts and keeps a particularly rare statuette in his study. After joking at a party that the female figurine bears a resemblance to her, Irina promised to show it to me. However, she wants sex first and I do not want to make her suspicious since it was so hard to win her trust._

_As irrational as it is, I feel strangely connected to her; she is as lonely as I am, and desperate for affection, though in a more physical way. She is starved for attention, craves appreciation and touch, both mentally and physically, and tonight sex, of course. I can act convincingly enough, but now I am apprehensive – I'm not sure whether I can carry out the act without the carefully constructed persona falling away; there is a moment when you have to stop pretending, and maybe it is easier for women in this instance, I cannot know._

_Underneath it is just me then, intimate with a strange person I do no trust, engaged in something I quite possibly loathe. Do not get me wrong, John, I feel no performance anxiety – if I did, there are substances to remedy that; but during this act of intimacy, I am bound to give up control and be myself in the end, not just a persona; and I hate to share this with someone who is not close to me. _

_To be more precise: in a way, she would know me better than you, at least in that one instance, and I cannot abide that idea. _

_There are technicalities, of course; I do not want her to end up like the prostitute in Helsinki. I need her to be asleep when I break into Michail's study, hence the signet ring with the drug; and Michail himself must never know what happened, neither of my theft nor her infidelity. He would skin her alive, literally. He keeps statues of Marsyas all over the place, and he is known to have carried out this punishment several times. He enjoys it. Therefore, I must erase all traces of my presence. _

_There is a considerable risk of discovery, though: Michail will come home tonight – I made sure of that. Irina does not know, otherwise she would never have let me in. The point is: I cannot open Michail's safe without his fingerprint and his code; the fingerprint is no problem, I have already taken one off a glass during a party and manufactured a skin-like replica which I can slip over my own fingertip. The code, however, is not so easy. Basically, I need Michail to be there and open the safe for me – I have installed a tiny camera that will record the code once he opens the safe, without him realising, of course. Which is why I'm currently hiding in his office, waiting for him, whiling away my time by writing to you. (If I narrate in present tense occasionally, do not worry, I'm not having sex with Irina and typing behind her back – it's only that the memories are yet unprocessed and recalled as a whole.)_

_She is surprisingly endearing, John, displaying the self-assuredness of a middle-aged society woman combined with a girlish insecurity when it comes to intimacy. I suppose I appeal to both her motherly instincts and the sexual needs of a mature woman who feels neglected. It is difficult to get her to relax, though, she switches between the roles constantly, and her anxiety prevents her from giving in to her desires. It takes all my determination and concentration to read her and react accordingly – I am surprised, John, that seducing her, now, in her bedroom, is such a laborious task – she has already committed the infidelity, has accepted the risk of discovery the moment she let me into the house; whether we complete the act or not is irrelevant. It is not logical. _

_I was not aware that having sex can be as much a psychological act as it is a physical one. At least with her, it depends far less on technique and more on my response to her emotional needs. I find it a stunningly demanding task. _

_I relish a challenge, John; for a case, I can do almost anything, and it is not entirely unpleasant. I did not know that a person can reveal so much during sex, not only preferences and aversions, but hidden desires, anxieties, attitudes, beliefs. _

_I have only one fear: that I do so as well. _

_But people do not observe. It is a mercy, right now. _

_I observe all the time, I cannot help it. I cannot shut it down, even if the flow of information threatens to overwhelm me. I am grateful she has complied with my request to forgo perfume. _

_She is soft and pliant, John, with a plump body – dyed blond hair, extensions, heavy make-up (three-layers at least plus primer, tastes slightly bitter) weekly anti-cellulite treatment (ineffective), wrinkle fillers (no Botox, she dislikes the side-effects), face lift more than seven years ago (clearly by an American surgeon), had her double chin removed last year, wants to have her throat done as well, but afraid of nerve damage), spider veins on her thighs (Sclerotherapy twice), 21 moles on her back, wears plenty of shapewear normally, feels insecure now without but does not want me to see the lingerie, thus discarded it an hour ago (lines still visible on her flesh), displays high degree of nervousness when I undress her – why the insecurity?_

_I do not understand, John. So much information, it is fascinating, an entirely new way of gathering data, it is thrilling! Why would I mind her sagging breasts (they are perfectly normal for her age) or the fact that her _labia minora_ protrude between her _labia majora_? It is neither a medical condition nor in any way relevant to achieve a satisfactory sexual experience._

_I consider telling her, but I'm afraid it might be what you call _a bit not good_, John, so I decide to show my appreciation without words._

_It works. Surprisingly well. I may have overdone it because she is growing bolder and wants to experiment with techniques she has never tried. I just about manage to dissuade her from giving me a prostate massage. _

_I am worried that Michail might arrive early – even if I notice him in time, he will undoubtedly hear Irina, since by now she voices her pleasure rather loudly (during her first orgasm she barely gasped, biting down on her lips so hard they bled), and I need to be hidden in his study when he comes home. I tell Irina that I want to look at the figurine before I'm too exhausted to care, and she unlocks the door to the study. I admire the figurine, but tell her that it's no match for her – then we leave. I have the door code. All I need now is the code to the safe._

_I ask her to give me a minute before we try anal sex, and go to the bathroom, preparing a glass of water with the soporific concealed in the signet ring. When I come back, Irina is soundly asleep. I fail to rouse her, so I tuck her in, remove all traces of our former activities, and hide in Michail's office._

_And he is coming now._

* * *

John looked up from the phone.

He cleared his throat.

Twice.

It still felt tight.

"Sherlock, I am not going to comment on this. I'm just not."

Sherlock frowned slightly, sighing in his sleep.

John said, "Right." Blinked. "Virgin. Right."

Then returned to reading.

* * *

_John, it's hilarious!_

_Michail came in, opened the safe (conveniently typing in the code in front of my tiny camera), stored the latest backup of his business data (I made sure he would do so today), closed the safe again and left to visit Irina. He found his very sleepy wife rather confused, and whatever gave him the idea (pheromones in the air? This calls for an experiment!), he decided to sleep with her. While Michail and Irina were busy with each other, I opened the safe at leisure, copied the data, put everything back in, and left without a trace. _

_There was no hurry when exiting the house – they were still engaged in rather vociferous activities. It would seem Irina was inspired. She was probably also aware that I was still in the house and thus determined to keep her husband's attention. Brave girl._

_I'm confused, John. I have the data, the mission was successful and it was a great achievement – I am certainly pleased, but strangely, the memory of Irina breaking into tears during her second orgasm fills me with more pride than the theft of the data. I cannot quite place it; partly, it is the power of manipulation I managed to exert, but there's more to it, and I cannot identify precisely why that memory gives me a rush of exhilaration._

_The crash comes a few hours later. I have stripped off the persona and deleted the entire existence. I'm holed up in a drab hiding place, evaluating the data (more codes to crack). My skin is tingling all over with memory, and with the abominable sanitary facilities here, it proved to be impossible to erase all traces of smell resulting from various sexual practices. It is horribly distracting._

_What I find more disconcerting, however, is the hollow feeling inside me – I have no idea where that comes from. It's as if someone has shot a bullet right through me, blowing a hole into the middle of my body. This is completely irrational, imbecilic, really, but I can't erase it. _

_Maybe I'm just hungry. Transport. _

_I'm vomiting._

_Not hungry, then. _

_Stress, I suppose. _

_I will concentrate on cracking the codes. Mycroft is going to dance on the table if he gets this – he promised to do so, with me watching. Of course, he was just taunting me, firmly believing that stealing Michail's data was an impossibility. Too bad. He will have to fulfill his promise now. :-)_

_John, I hope you and Mary are close to each other, in every way. I believe I now understand better why you enjoy sex, but I find it unsettling, and I do not wish to share intimacy – neither physical nor mental – with someone I do not know and trust to the last fibre of their being. _

_I say this because I know you wonder whether I am straight, gay, bi- or asexual, or belong to any other of those ridiculous categorizations people seem to need. I told Mycroft the truth when I said 'sex doesn't alarm me' – I'm not so sure about intimacy, however. _

_Take care._

_S_

* * *

John took a deep breath and turned his face away, not daring to look at Sherlock. For some reason, he felt embarrassed, as if intruding on something very private, although Sherlock had written down the experience solely for him to read. But his frankness seemed a way of apologizing for faking his suicide, and John strongly believed that he should not feel the need to do so.

He was also appalled at Sherlock's dismissal of his own needs. Apparently, the eating problems had already started back then, but Sherlock had refused to acknowledge them. To be honest, there was not much he could have done about it anyway, and John granted him that retrieving the data that had eventually prevented a terrible act of terrorism had been worth the risk. Still, had he been there, he would have talked Sherlock out of it.

John sat there, pondering the events in Russia, his face turned towards the window. It was dark, the ward was silent, and the Thames embankment was sparkling with artificial lights.

He sighed deeply, and turning to Sherlock, he said, "You know, Sherlock, I'm proud of –"

The words got stuck on his tongue.

Sherlock sat upright, eyes open but unfocused, the nasal cannula discarded in his lap. His hands were moving, but no longer in that uncoordinated, jerky fashion. There was fluency and determination – every movement had purpose, as if shifting invisible objects, often just touching them with a fingertip, moving them hither and thither or running an index finger along an invisible inventory. The injured side seemed to cause him a lot of pain: he flinched and even hissed when he tried to move his left arm, but he never stopped.

John gaped, not daring to believe it. He had been witness to this silent choreography before, and either he was completely wrong, delusional, and the victim of his own wishful thinking, or Sherlock was deep in his Mind Palace, shifting around things, probably inspecting and ordering them. At least it looked like it, given his frown and the annoyed flicker of his eyes. Often, he seemed to dismiss something in anger, virtually throwing it away; other times, he lingered, as if cherishing the object, twisting and turning it, smoothing its edges, running his fingers along it, almost caressing. John could but wonder what was going on in this brilliant mind: these were no longer the involuntary spasms of a brain in vegetative state.

John considered calling in the cavalry – the coma specialists and other experts, but in the end refrained from it. They would only poke and prod Sherlock, and he was bound to react badly to it. He decided to call Mycroft in the morning to inform him of the sudden change – the experts would be flocking in anyway then.

Instead, he watched Sherlock with growing concern: he was clearly in a great deal of pain and completely exhausted, sweat running down his temples. John approached him slowly, wary to startle him. He had no idea whether Sherlock knew he was there.

"Sherlock, it's me, John. I'm going to give you something against the pain, OK? I won't touch you, I'm just adjusting the infusion system."

Sherlock gave no sign of recognition, busy with his silent shifting and sorting. By all rights, the pain medication should have made him even more tired, but he kept working – on what, only he knew.

John just sat there, staring at him in wonder, worrying and praying that he was witnessing another miracle. Could it be that Mycroft's initial quip was correct, and Sherlock was indeed rebuilding his Mind Palace?

And once finished, would he wake up?

It seemed not: after almost two hours, Sherlock was so exhausted that he simply collapsed back into bed, wincing at the pain, eyes falling shut.

John followed suit.


	46. My only Friend

**Again, thank you so much for your reviews – I rewrote yesterday's chapter about a hundred times until I felt it worked, and I'm absolutely thrilled to see that most of you liked it and understood what I was trying to do! Oh, sweet success …**

**Today: torture ahead.**

* * *

**My only friend**

John woke with a start only one hour later. Dawn was still far off, and at first he was too confused to realise what had interrupted his fitful sleep, but then it struck him: Sherlock had uttered a sound.

He was sitting upright again, lost in the same activity as before – shifting and sorting, and now, it seemed, uttering indiscernible sounds as well.

"Are you talking in your sleep now, Sherlock?" John tried to joke, for the sake of saying something. As before, Sherlock did not acknowledge him, but he winced in pain, obviously struggling to complete his imagined task despite being impaired by his injuries.

"Just another step up on the coma scale, I hope," John muttered and gave him another dose of the pain medication. He scrutinised him carefully as the analgesic entered his system, and he was glad to see that Sherlock's posture relaxed ever so slightly when the medication kicked in.

Sherlock kept muttering; his voice was rough from disuse, and a coughing fit lingered in his chest, but it was still good to hear that voice at all.

And then John's mouth dropped: he had picked out a word in the mumbled torrent. This was not the incomprehensible babble of a coma patient – Sherlock was speaking Russian. Bloody _Russian_.

John was so thunderstruck, he put the side rail down and plunked himself next to Sherlock. "Are you actually mulling over what I have read to you? Is that your way of processing the information?"

He received no answer, and Sherlock never so much as looked at him, apparently busy in his Mind Palace.

"Huh," John huffed, feeling crazy laughter bubbling up inside him. It was surreal – in the middle of the night, he sat next to his best friend, but could not get through to him. Sherlock was alive and breathing, even moving and speaking, but he was still unreachable, shrouded in the layers of the coma.

Might as well make conversation, John thought with an edge of hysteria. "You know, Sherlock, it would be nice if you acknowledged me. Just once, I mean. I feel like I'm becoming a peace of furniture in here, like the chair or the cot. Always there, taken for granted. You know, doctors usually don't do the whole bed bath and changing bandages thing, that's the nurses' job. But you get all worked up like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum when they touch you and I'm not there. And by the way, if you pull up your feeding tube one more time, Nurse June has sworn to hand in her notice, and then you get that dragon from the room opposite as your primary nurse. I'm sure she's going to shove the food down the tube without bothering to put it into the mixer first. So think about it."

John cleared his throat, fiddling with the bed covers for a while. "I guess they're going to pull out the chest tube today. There's almost nothing coming out of it anymore, so that's good. Great, actually. Will be a while, though, until you're really done with the pneumonia. Weeks, probably, need to make sure you don't develop anything chronic, so no running around in foggy London. Lots of sleep, regular meals, moderate physiotherapy. In other words: boring." He chuckled and felt the hysteria taking over: a tear escaped from the corner of his eye. He wiped it away.

"I think, while you're at it and I can't sleep anyway, I'll go on reading, Sherlock." He got off the bed, fetched the phone and returned to sit next to an oblivious Sherlock.

"Not much left before they caught you," he muttered. "Only one entry. The rest is from your new phone. Let's see." John stiffened. "Another audio file. So you weren't able to type." He clicked on it.

This time, he was prepared: he didn't drop the phone when earsplitting bangs erupted from the speaker. Gunshots, John realised, accompanied by static noise, feet hitting metal stairs, then a frenzied rush across concrete.

Sherlock, panting, "John, I'm on a rooftop –" his voice was drowned out by gusts of wind. "…'m running … been betrayed. They're close, it's Moriarty, I must hide the phone –" More gunshots, shouting in the distance. "Mycroft will protect you, if not, I'll haunt him in hell. If I don't make it-" he broke off, swallowing hard.

The shouting was drawing nearer.

"They've got me. There - I'm lost without my blogger. Lost without you. I-" a nervous chuckle. "See you in this life or the next. Forgive me."

The recording broke off.

John stared at the phone, his emotions in turmoil.

He was about to say something, when the recording suddenly resumed.

"What …?" John gasped in surprise. There were gunshots now, so loud John winced at the noise. Sherlock was chuckling – if not to say sniggering. "John, couldn't leave you like that," he scoffed. "Feel free to punch me when I come home – if I don't, get on with your life!" A crack, and the file closed.

John felt as if his throat were stuck in a vice. Twice, he tried to summon the strength to say something, and twice his voice failed. The third time, it broke on the first syllable. "Get on with my life," he stated, glaring at Sherlock. "Just like that. And how was I supposed to do that? Oh, and thanks for graciously allowing me to punch you. I'll get back to it in time." He looked at Sherlock, but he had turned his head away, snarling at some imagined opponent.

John cleared his throat and waited until he felt calmer. Then he giggled. "You had to end on a high note, didn't you?" He sighed and just sat there for a long time, musing about the madness of their situation.

Finally, he said, "So, that's the end of it, Sherlock. You hid your phone, got caught, were held captive until Mycroft rescued you, and then you came back." He looked at him – Sherlock had stilled in his movements, staring at the wall; suddenly, he gave an angry huff, then continued as before.

John chuckled. "This whole situation is so weird, I refuse to think about it any longer. I'll read the new entries, now, OK? The ones you made back here in London, after your return. Let's see … um, do you want me to read them aloud, too, or do you remember them?" He looked questioningly at Sherlock, who had tilted his head to the side as if listening to an inner voice, ignoring John.

"Never mind," John grumbled, "just listen, OK?"

He began reading Sherlock's account of their encounter in the MI6 building, but soon his voice faltered and his fingers trembled when he realised that Sherlock had written down all the words, all the apologies and explanations he had been unable to say at the time. It had all been there, the fear, the unfulfilled need, the cry for help that never left his lips, the distress at failing to express himself, even the death wish, and then the glimmer of hope.

He should have known, John thought, that Sherlock suffered inside like any other human being, but would rather push everyone away than admit his pain.

He reached the last chapter; it was written at 221B, he realised, while Sherlock was waiting to snap his final trap, meeting Moriarty at the Shard.

* * *

_Dear John,_

_I was interrupted by Mycroft during my last entry, outside the hospital, when you were lying knocked out, victim of my ruse to catch Moran. I was just trying to protect you from Moriarty, you know that now. I'm about to head for the Shard, for the final confrontation with my nemesis. At least, I hope it's final. Either way._

_I promised to tell you what fragments of memory I have – it is not hard to deduce what happened after they chased me across Moscow's rooftops where I planted the decoy and hid the real phone, only for Moriarty to find it anyway. Didn't do him much good, though, he couldn't break the code. But he handed me over to the Americans, along with the false phone. What a set-up: the Americans held me captive in Russia, trying to break into a phone that held only fabricated data, while Moriarty had the real thing, trying to break into it and failing just as well. However, he gave the Americans quite a few tips on how to break me._

_Conventional torture was not effective – depriving me of sleep, food and water was more of a trial of their patience than mine, since I can go without quite a while. Being beaten up was certainly unpleasant, particularly given the unsanitary conditions in the basement, but with every day they wasted on these methods, chances increased that Mycroft would find me. _

_The waterboarding was a much greater challenge. I'm sure you have seen your share of torture during the war, and as a doctor you know the effects. I would have found the experience fascinating, had it not been – let's be frank: utterly horrible. _

_I think waterboarding is possibly the most efficient and unassuming way of torture, triggering every survival instinct there is and flooding the body with sheer terror. Knowing did not save me from the nerve-shredding panic, however. It is a physical, purely instinctive reaction, not controlled by the mind but triggered by the ancient parts of the brain we share with generations of mammal ancestors. Beyond my control. Still, you can resist as long as there is hope, and I knew with every day that passed, Mycroft was coming closer to finding me. _

_However, my captors must have realised this as well. Undoubtedly, it was Moriarty's counselling that made them change tactics. Since I proved useless, they decided to blackmail Mycroft instead; I guess Moriarty convinced them that Mycroft had the code to break into the phone or knew how to retrieve the information in some other way, and that he would exchange the data for his brother._

_I suppose it was at this point that they refrained from any further conventional torture and resorted to regularly injecting me with cocaine, sending Mycroft a video of me in this drugged state. This was quite clever, actually, since it had two advantages: Mycroft feared my drug addiction much more than any torture, and they could easily dispose of my corpse after an overdose. It was much more psychological warfare than actual violence, and the Americans could never have played on my brother's fears so effectively without Moriarty's help._

_Of course, Mycroft could do nothing but try to find me – he neither had the phone (Moriarty had it, of course) nor would he have been able to unlock it, and the same is true for the decoy: I never gave him the code. Why? In anticipation of precisely this situation._

_When Moriarty realised Mycroft was making a deal with the Russians (kick the Americans out of the country, get the (false) phone and free time to play with it), he decided to put a stop to the game. _

_He took charge of the interrogations – or rather, he sent his experts to solve the problem for the Americans. _

_What do you think his solution was? My corpse riddled with track marks in a back alley? No, John, far too unsubtle for Moriarty. That's what the Americans would have done. Dull._

_You know me, John. What is my greatest fear? _

_Moriarty knew. Oh, he knew. _

_I have seen you staring at me, John, at that tell-tale bruise under my left eye. You couldn't figure it out, you were racking your brain what could have caused the haemorrhage, since it was clearly not from a fist punching me. Well. It was Moriarty's punishment._

_I have lost so many memories, but not this one. The fragments are there, and even an idiot can put the pieces together. _

_First, they gave me a round of electroshocks – probably the cause of the memory loss, but pretty excruciating in its own right. Naturally, they refrained from sedation, and I was lucky to not break any bones from the spasms. Frying my brain didn't seem particularly effective either (I guess I can spare a few brain cells), and they were running out of time: I remember someone shouting that the Russians were on their way before they tied me down again._

_I knew what they intended to do. _

_John, I asked you once, 'If you were dying, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?' And you said, 'Please, God, let me live.' _

_Well, my thoughts were, 'Please, God, let me die.' _

_It took six of them to hold me down and then the ice pick still scraped along my forehead instead of going into my eye. _

_The next attempt was successful: the steel needle slid into my skull, bypassing the eye ball and hitting the bone that separates the eye socket from the brain. I remember someone fumbling for the hammer; I see the glint of steel as it rests on the ice pick, the man holding it; I hear the clinking sound as it hits on the metal, feel the sudden pressure in my skull, the thundering crack, the vibrations travelling through my brain – and then someone dropping something – a loud, metallic clatter – we both jerk, my torturer and I, and at that instant I decide that my only chance to resist is by struggling as much as possible, hoping to inflict a fatal injury. _

_He pulled the ice pick out before I could succeed._

_Apparently, they realised that they had to knock me out or they would not be able to control the damage. Inserting the ice pick and breaking the bone that protects the brain by hitting it with a hammer with just the right amount of force requires practice, excellent fine motor skills, and diligence. Scraping away at the brain tissue to destroy the personality without killing the victim is even more difficult: cut too deep and you have a corpse instead of a vegetable. Mind you, they wanted to reduce me to a babbling idiot, not murder me._

_John, as a doctor, you certainly know about the victims of lobotomy: I believe you understand now that death would have been preferable._

_Looking back, the time it took them to knock me out with another round of electroshocks proved to be crucial. During those precious moments, the Russians stormed the building and put and end to the torture. I have no memory beyond being dragged towards a helicopter, surrounded by Mycroft's men. Apparently, when they found me, I was still convulsing from the electroshocks, yet not entirely unconscious, thus preventing my torturers from completing the procedure._

_So, don't worry, they never got to my brain; the haemorrhage under my eye is from the soft tissue damage caused by the ice pick, not from a skull fracture. Well, maybe a slight fracture, certainly healed by now – I refused to submit to Mycroft's doctors, having had my fair share of poking and prodding. I'm fine. Not even much of a headache._

_The electroshocks were worse, however: they destroyed my Mind Palace, John. A firestorm has raged through it, and now it's lying in ruins, burnt down, essential parts reduced to cinder and ashes. Rebuilding might be possible if I can fill in the gaps in my memory. It will never be the same again, but I believe it can be reconstructed to the degree that my mind can inhabit it. _

_I am now ready to go to the Shard to meet Moriarty._

_Wish me luck. And forgive me, please. _

_You are my only friend._

_S_

* * *

John stared at the phone, his mind blank. For a while, he was too shocked to react in any way at all. He had known about the waterboarding, and the rest he had imagined – but this, destroying Sherlock's mind, his personality, his intellect, everything he was – this was beyond torture, even beyond murder. The sheer vindictiveness was staggering.

And his torturer, Moriarty, was still out there.

John cleared his throat and tried to overcome the nausea making his stomach heave. For a second, he really thought he'd have to reach for the sick bowl before he clamped down on the urge to vomit, swallowing compulsively.

Humming under his breath, he exhaled slowly and forced himself to calm down until he felt able to utter a comprehensible sound. Rubbing his tired eyes, he muttered, "I'm just glad they did all those scans and your brain turned out fine." He looked up. "Sherlock, I-"

Shocked, he dropped the phone. It cluttered to the ground noisily.

Sherlock was looking at him. _Really_ looking. His face was only a few inches away, eyes focused, brow furrowed, hands resting on the blanket, perfectly still.

John felt his stomach drop: Sherlock was deducing him.

He was awake.

~ 0 ~

* * *

**A few more chapters to go …**


	47. Lucid

**Dear faithful reviewers, after posting 46 chapters I finally found out that there is actually a reply button for reviews … ahem … I apologise profusely. As Sherlock would say: you see, but you don't observe … first fanfic, still learning. Still stuck with exams, too. **

**And again: thank you a million times for your feedback. I'm overwhelmed!**

* * *

**Lucid**

"I – I – I –" John broke off, realising that his brain was stuck. He blinked, suddenly afraid that Sherlock alert and conscious was just a dream, and in a moment he would wake up and find him unresponsive as before.

"John." The voice was rough and dark, but Lord, did it sound good.

"You – you – um," John clamped his mouth shut, closing his eyes, desperate to regain control. "Are you lucid?" he burst out, overwhelmed by embarrassment the next moment.

"Are you?" Sherlock asked, raising one brow.

"Apparently not," John breathed, humming under his breath, desperately trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. There was a procedure for coma patients waking up, for God's sake, questions to be asked, tests to be performed.

If only he could remember them.

"Not much point if I ask you what date it is, huh?" John chuckled.

"Would you know the answer?" Sherlock rasped, blinking slowly.

"No," John coughed. "Been here too long." He looked away, trying to stifle the growing panic. What was wrong with him? When had he ever reacted so completely unprofessional, and why, for God's sake? He should be exhilarated – instead, panic bloomed in his chest, completely irrational and useless panic!

"John," Sherlock asked, "are you all right?" He sounded deeply concerned.

That was the final straw. It started with a giggle, which turned into hysterical laughter, and then John broke down sobbing, sinking onto the bed, burying his face in the blanket, somewhere between Sherlock's knees. He couldn't stop, even as the absurdity of the situation hit him and embarrassment made his ears burn, but his body was still wrecked by great stupid sobs, the tears flowing as if someone had turned on a tap.

It took a while until the sensation sank in, but at some point, he realised Sherlock was patting his back awkwardly; in doing so, he dislocated the oximeter on his finger, setting off the alarm. With a great gasp, John wrenched himself out of his breakdown and hurriedly turned to silence the machine. The last thing he now wanted was everyone trampling in, whisking Sherlock away from him.

Still sniffling, he turned to face his friend. He met a calm, almost cool gaze if it had not been for the warmth in Sherlock's eyes, now thrillingly awake and scrutinising him intensely. John fought a persistent hiccup, and in between gasps squeezed out, "So you know where you are and what happened?"

"Of course." Sherlock nodded at the window, showing London's night skyline. "If I didn't, I would deduce it."

"Right." John giggled again, feeling stupid. "How much do you remember of what I've read to you?"

"All of it." Sherlock's eyes never left him, taking in every movement.

"So, you've been awake how long?" John couldn't help but feel like an idiot, and one that had worried in vain.

"Seven minutes."

John gaped. "Only seven – ? And before, before, you were – ?"

"Mind Palace, John. Rebuilding, thanks to the information you supplied."

"Could you have woken up earlier?" John croaked, still feeling like a fool.

"No. I was trapped. I made my way up here, following your voice."

"Seriously?" John shook his head in disbelief. "What do you mean, you made your way up here?"

Sherlock suddenly looked away. "John, I'd prefer to talk about this later."

John mentally kicked himself, shaking off his trance-like state. "Sorry, I'm an idiot. Great bedside manner. Believe me, I don't normally interrogate my coma patients like that." He rubbed his face. "You must be exhausted. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock took his time, drawing breath before he answered: "Rather weak. Tolerable amount of pain in my chest, but spikes as soon as I move, left shoulder stiff, left arm numb, joints aching, skin itching. Nausea, headache, dizziness; short of breath, sore throat, strong urge to cough, badly in need of coffee and a bathroom. I hate the smell."

"We bathed you yesterday," John replied, overwhelmed by it all.

"High time for a shower and a shave, then. Plus, I would be exceedingly grateful if you could remove the Foley catheter, it is a constant irritation and no longer necessary, as is the feeding tube. I can take care of the latter myself, my hands should be steady enough for that."

"You will do no such thing," John barked, suddenly finding his military voice again. "You'll get some rest and have the doctors look you over in the morning."

Sherlock raised his brows. "John, I'm fed up with hospital. I want to leave as soon as possible. I bet Mycroft has not found Moriarty yet –"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, shut it." He started to giggle again, hysteria welling up once more. "This is so mad … Jesus … you're finally awake and it takes less than five minutes for me to want to tape your mouth shut." He felt tears prickle in his eyes and quickly turned away, pressing his hands against his burning cheeks.

"John." A tentative finger poked him in the side. "Sorry."

"It's okay," John wheezed. "I'm sorry. I'm the idiot here. I'm reacting so unprofessionally. It's just been a bit too much stress and no proper sleep. Gets to me. I still can't believe it that you're back. I mean – that you're back and that you're you. Um – okay, I don't make much sense here. Sorry for babbling. Doesn't mean I'm not completely, utterly, overwhelmingly happy with every fibre of my being." He looked at Sherlock, and met wide, questioning eyes, eyes that knew how to plead and make John's heart melt … he shook his head vigorously. "No way, Sherlock, you're not going anywhere. Absolutely not. Do not try the puppy look on me." He drew a deep breath. "This is the _Intensive Care Unit_, and you are here for a bloody good reason."

Sherlock frowned and gave him one of his calculating stares. "All right," he conceded. "I'm rather exhausted anyway. But, please John, get those awful tubes out of me." He started fiddling with the tape that held the feeding tube in place, and John placed a warning hand over his fingers. "Wait. I'll do it properly, okay? No rush. You're only going to hurt yourself."

Sherlock huffed and gave one more tug.

"Sherlock, you've been in a coma, for God's sake!" John hissed. "I've waited at your bedside for days on end – you'll manage to wait until I get the stuff I need to remove the tube!"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, struggling with his impatience. John rolled his eyes at him, secretly rejoicing that Sherlock was so completely his obstinate self.

"There," he placed a towel around Sherlock's shoulders and brought the bed up. "Lean back and relax, I need to examine you first."

"What for?" Sherlock complained.

"Before I can remove the tube, I need to be sure you're ready for it, otherwise it stays where it is. Which means, I will take this stethoscope," John held up the instrument he had acquired at the very beginning of his vigil, waving it in front of Sherlock. "And I will check your abdomen, listening for bowel sounds. And you will hold still and _let me do it._"

He was greeted with a long sigh, but Sherlock complied. John was satisfied after a while and put the stethoscope away.

There was another issue, however, and John hated to tackle it. "Do you think you can eat and keep something down?" he asked quietly, moving Sherlock into a sitting position. They both knew what he was referring to.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied in a low voice. "I have to try at some point."

John gave him a concerned look. "True, but you don't have to do everything at once. Give yourself a break."

Sherlock chuckled. "Hm."

John looked up as he turned off the valve of the tube. "What?"

"I have missed this." Sherlock smiled languidly. "You being concerned about me."

"Oh, you'll get plenty more of that, believe me," John muttered and started peeling the tape off Sherlock's face. "It's gonna be a while until you leave here, and even longer until you're up on your feet and running around London."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Okay, take a deep breath and hold it," John instructed, then pulled out the tube onto the towel in one smooth movement. Sherlock started coughing, but instantly winced in pain and tried to suppress the urge to cough. He failed and had to fight tears on top of it.

"That's the pneumonia speaking," John grumbled and gave Sherlock some tissues. "Which you failed to mention to me."

Sherlock just gasped between coughs, but once the coughing subsided, he gave John a tired look from half-closed eyes. "Sorry."

"We'll talk about that later. You need rest. Here, rinse out your mouth." John held a cup to his lips and watched as Sherlock drank, sloshing the water around in his mouth and then spitting it into the offered basin. He noticed that Sherlock didn't try to hold the cup himself – too weak, then.

John checked him over again. "How are you feeling now? Anything out of order?"

"Just tired," Sherlock said. "Still need the other tubes out, though."

John sighed in exasperation. "Don't you think it would be easier to just fall asleep and let the Foley do its job?"

"I can't sleep when I'm constantly thinking I need to rush to the toilet," Sherlock complained.

"Oh, Jesus," John muttered, "didn't know you were so squeamish."

"It hurts, John!" Sherlock burst out with surprising vehemence. "Every time I move, there's a dragging pain, and I find it more annoying than the bullet wound!"

"Okay, all right, calm down," John backtracked. "You had an infection of the urinary tract only a couple of days ago, it's probably irritated. I'll get what I need, and I'll bring a urinal as well."

"Unnecessary. I'll use the bathroom."

"No, you won't."

"Moriarty didn't shoot me in the leg, John."

"No, just the chest, Sherlock, and you're not going to use the bathroom because you are a) too weak, b) we need to measure your urine output, and c) I don't have the nerve to drag you to the toilet and back. It's a urinal or diapers."

Sherlock stared at him, his face an unreadable mask. Then he burst out laughing. "You wouldn't dare."

"Yes, I would," John insisted, but started laughing himself.

They both giggled like schoolgirls, Sherlock occasionally flinching in pain, and John fighting hysterical tears. Suddenly, Sherlock's face fell. "John, if you're not helping me to the toilet, what if I need to – _hell_! The bloody feeding tube! I could have done without food!"

"No, you couldn't," John was serious again. "Anyway, you received parenteral nutrition first, the feeding tube hasn't been in long and they have a three-day policy here. You've just about met the deadline." He started to hiccup again and couldn't help but giggle. "Oh, God, my professionalism's gone down the drain …"

"You mean they would have given me laxatives and slapped on nappies," Sherlock drawled with a raised brow.

"Would've been due today," John grinned. "It's a bedpan instead. And the laxatives might still be on the agenda."

"John," Sherlock sat up, swaying slightly, sweat trickling down his temples. "I am going to use the toilet when it becomes necessary, even if I have to crawl there."

"They don't have one in here, it's the ICU, remember." John tried to stare him down.

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "I did not survive torture at the hands of Moriarty's men only to be subjected to another round of indignities by British nursing staff. I will use the _toilet_." He enunciated the letters with precision, almost spitting them out.

John suddenly noticed how pale Sherlock had gone, and realised that he was genuinely upset by the idea. Suddenly, he understood: it had to do with the torture. Sherlock was not squeamish, neither when slicing up corpses nor when it came to the more intimate aspects of patient care: prudery was an alien concept to him. But if you wanted to humiliate a captive, the easiest way to do so was by stripping away privacy, and depriving the person of the means to attend to the most basic needs. John had no doubt that Sherlock had endured these humiliations far too long and was unwilling to let it happen again; he was determined to act on his threat to use the toilet, and chances were he would collapse and injure himself.

"Okay," John gave in. "We'll find a solution when the need arises, right? I'll help you, just don't attempt anything on your own, Sherlock. Promise me, OK?"

Sherlock glared at him, then nodded. "Fine."

John sighed with relief. "Right. Let's get the Foley out, then. Uh," he looked around, rummaged through several drawers, but could not find the necessary equipment. "Looks like we've run out of gloves and drapes. I'll call the nurse." He reached for the button, but Sherlock stopped his hand. "Don't. No nurse."

John raised his brows. "Jesus, Sherlock, they won't bite, they're actually nice here, with the exception of the dragon from the other room. But your primary Nurse is a saint, and she's been looking after you all this time."

"John," Sherlock panted, sinking back into the pillows. "Once they know I'm awake they won't leave me alone. Please, allow me some privacy. The morning will come soon enough."

"Actually," John suddenly frowned, "I'm really surprised they haven't been in here already. Your vitals have changed considerably," he nodded at the screens. "They can read them at the nurses' station. Normally they come in every hour anyway – this is really strange." He looked around, but the ward was quiet. Too quiet.

John felt the hair rise at the nape of his neck. "Sherlock, I'll go and fetch the stuff. Lie back and rest, okay?"

"John, if you think I haven't noticed that you are suddenly extremely alarmed, then you're an idiot."

"I'm not –"

"Yes you are. Do you want me to list the signs?" Sherlock sat ramrod straight.

"No," John hissed. "Okay, I'm worried. That's my new default mode, thanks to you. Now relax, for God's sake. Please!"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but leaned back into the pillows. As soon as John had left, he strained his ears to listen. There were the usual sounds from the machines in the room, the air conditioning, the faint trampling and clanging from the floors above and below, boats on the Thames, street noise and traffic – too much traffic.

He sat up again.

This was the dead of the night, yet reflected on the Thames surface, he could see blue lights flashing. Tilting his head and closing his eyes, he picked out the engine sounds of transport vehicles – police, probably, possibly fire brigade as well. Sherlock suddenly had a fairly clear idea of what was going on; and he knew John wasn't spooked for nothing.

He instantly felt the adrenaline coursing through his body, speeding up the cardiac monitor's signals two notches. He tried to control the pain in his chest, focusing on his breathing; when he felt able to move, he reached across the bed and pulled over the monitors and the stand with the infusion system. Systematically, he began shutting them all down. As soon as he was done, he peeled off the electrodes and removed the remaining monitoring equipment. It was more difficult and physically demanding than he had anticipated: it left him panting and trembling, cold sweat trickling down his spine.

Hissing through clenched teeth, he gave up on the central venous line. He couldn't distort his body enough to reach for it, and his fingers were stiff and clumsy. He considered pulling out the chest tube instead, but hesitated – the area needed to be sterilized and taped, otherwise he was risking an infection. He closed his eyes again, summoning all his strength. It was no use. He had to get ready: there was not the slightest doubt in his mind that Moriarty was coming for him; his only advantage was that the criminal mastermind believed him defenseless, holed up with John, clueless like sitting ducks.

Sherlock folded the blankets away, gritted his teeth at the chill and the nagging pain in his chest, and began plucking at the tape surrounding the area where the tube was stuck in the side of his ribcage. Grumbling at his stiff fingers, he finally managed to peel it off – and frowned in annoyance: the tube was held in place by a suture. He definitely couldn't remove this on his own – he needed scissors to cut the threads, and gauze to tape the wound. Huffing in anger, he returned to the central venous catheter, and this time he succeeded in disconnecting the infusion lines. He even managed to grab some tape, and, tearing it off with his teeth, he secured the catheter in place.

Toying with the tape for a moment, he looked around. Gauze was right next to it, as were empty syringes and other supplies. If he managed to grab some of it, he could get rid of both the chest tube and the Foley catheter – all he needed to do was swing his legs out of bed, lean forward and pull the medication cart over.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Surely, he had met greater challenges in the last three years.

* * *

John was at a loss: emptiness greeted him in the white corridors of the ICU. Normally, even at night, nurses were either at their stations or checking on patients, and the cleaners usually appeared around midnight as well. However, he heard a faint murmur from the far end of the ward where the staff room was.

He quickly moved to one of the windows, looking down. His eyes widened in surprise: a whole fleet of police cars and fire engines surrounded the hospital, and people were streaming out of the building in a hurry – the nursing staff was easily recognizable, clad in blue, green and purple, most of them pushing wheel chairs and trolleys or leading patients away towards the waiting ambulances and buses.

_Bomb_ _threat_, he immediately thought. But why this unearthly silence in the ICU? Why was no one here, carting out the patients? Something was wrong. John's heart pounded painfully in his chest, and he felt fear spreading through his veins like ice water. "Jesus," he muttered and jogged towards the staff room. Normally, the place was buzzing with the chatting of the nurses and the huffing noise of the coffee machine. This time, it was filled with quiet murmuring, an almost palpable tension in the air. He stuck his head in.

Apparently, a briefing was going on. The entire staff was assembled; most of the nurses and doctors had their arms folded, looking concerned, a few outright scared. Nurse June saw him and hurried over. "Oh, Dr Watson, we have a bomb threat. We're organising the evacuation right now – we've been informed that the police will be here any moment, directing us out of the building. We'll start getting the patients ready in a minute, you can be of help –"

"Sure," he patted her arm absentmindedly, "I'm right back." He left her standing and ran from the room as fast as his feet could carry him. "Bomb threat, you gotta be kidding," he spat, storming down the corridor. Just as he rounded the corner, he saw the elevator doors open. He stopped to see who was coming – and ducked behind the corner in a flash, his heart clenching in fear. "Police, my arse," he hissed to himself. "Bursting into the ICU with guns, huh?"

The next second, he heard shocked exclamations, chairs being overturned, and supplies crashing to the floor.

The hunt had begun.


	48. Q

**As ever: thank you.**

* * *

**Q**

John could have kissed Mycroft's feet for putting them into the poshest room available – it also happened to be farthest away from the entrance of the ward. A few precious minutes to flee, he thought, grabbing a wheelchair. Sherlock would need it.

"Sherlock!" he hissed as he burst through the glass doors. "Sherlock, there's –" He stopped dead. "What are you doing?!"

"John," Sherlock snapped, "this is hardly the time for scolding. Help me." He looked up from his attempts to cut the threads of the suture holding the chest tube in place. He was sitting on the side of the bed, legs dangling, stark naked.

"Jesus," John gasped but rushed to his side. "There's an evacuation going on. _Police_ just came in – only, they didn't look like police."

"I know," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty. Bomb threat. Perfect excuse to send in men in uniforms taking hostages instead of evacuating people."

"How did you – never mind." John frantically looked around. "There are no gloves!"

"Do it without."

"Shit," John, cursed, and added a few more choice words while he hurriedly prepared tape and gauze; he cut the threads and steadied the tube. "God, if you're going to get an infection because I didn't wear gloves –"

"I won't," Sherlock snapped.

"Deep breath, and hold it," John instructed, then pulled out the tube and slapped the bandage over it as fast as lightning. "Done. Now, the wheelchair." He jumped up, pushed it in front of the bed and put the brakes on. Sherlock was edging forward on the mattress, tentatively feeling the floor with his feet.

"Okay," John hurried back to his side. "We'll wrap you in the sheet. Now, put your arms around my neck."

"The Foley," Sherlock hissed.

"No time," John huffed. "Now, arms around my neck, and up!"

Sherlock puffed out an angry breath, but wrapped one arm around John's shoulders. With the other, he dragged the sheet with him, throwing it onto the wheelchair. John placed him as gently as possible in the chair, wincing as his back punished him with a stabbing pain. He stiffened for a second, breathless, and noticed with growing concern that Sherlock was trembling from pain – he had buried his head on John's shoulder, humming in a low voice, eyes squeezed shut.

"You okay?" John whispered.

"Mhm," came the muffled reply.

"Sorry." John pulled the sheet up and wrapped him into it as best he could. Alarmed, he noticed that Sherlock's eyes were rolling back in his head. "Keep breathing, Sherlock," he commanded, tapping him on the cheeks.

"M'fine," Sherlock mumbled. "John, the Foley," he complained, tugging at the line leading to the bed.

"Oh, sod it," John hissed and yanked the urine bag off the bad, dumping it in Sherlock's lap. He quickly bundled the woollen blanket over Sherlock's legs and tucked it in on all sides. "Ready?"

"Need that," Sherlock pointed to a pillow case on the bed, filled with unidentifiable stuff.

"What's that? Never mind," John shoved the bundle at him. "Okay." He went to his knees and fetched Sherlock's phone from where it had fallen under the bed. "We have to call Mycroft. My phone's dead."

"Useless," Sherlock drawled. "Moriarty will have blocked all communication. New toy from the Americans."

"Oh, bloody f…" John trailed off in an indistinguishable curse. "Never mind. Let's go."

"John."

John froze. Then heard it, too. "Oh _HELL_!"

Someone was approaching the doors – and it was not the quiet treading of rubber soles.

"John, over there," Sherlock hissed, and John pushed the wheelchair into the corner next to the door, yanking the infusion stack with him. Sherlock grabbed it and held on to it, breathing heavily.

John placed himself opposite, on the other side of the doors.

A bulky silhouette appeared, then the glass doors were pushed open; Sherlock let out an impressive roar and knocked over the infusion stack, right into the intruder. The man, clad in police uniform, gave a surprised shout, and before he knew what was happening, John had jumped him from behind, doing his best to strangle him with a tube. A wild scuffle ensued; it ended abruptly when the man yelled, stiffened, and sank to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"What the …?" John let go, confused.

"Sedative, John," Sherlock brandished a syringe. "Plenty of it in the medication trolley."

"Jesus," John wheezed, "you're pretty lethal, even in a wheelchair."

"Learned a few tricks," Sherlock smirked and gathered up the blanket. "Out, now!"

John picked up the man's gun and shoved it behind his back, then grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and dashed out into the corridor. Thankfully, no one noticed them – the men were busy searching the rooms, and the guards holding the staff hostage had their heads turned away.

"Freight elevator," Sherlock declared.

"Guess where I'm going," John hissed, flitting down the corridor. "Thank God," he gave a sigh of relief when they found the broad elevator doors unguarded. John lunged for the buttons, stabbing at them repeatedly. "Come on," he mumbled, biting his lips.

Sherlock sighed. "John, it's not going to move faster –"

"Shut up!"

The doors slid open and John pushed Sherlock through so fast that the wheels scratched along the doors. He hit the buttons to take them down, then made a u-turn to face the doors again. He could look down the entire length of the corridor, all the way to the opaque entrance doors of the ICU. The guards still kept their heads turned away, but as long as the elevator wasn't moving, they were trapped in a fishbowl: there was nowhere to run. John squeezed past Sherlock and, taking out the gun, he positioned himself protectively in front of him.

"John," Sherlock protested.

"Sherlock, just shut it!" John hissed back.

The elevator doors were finally moving, agonizingly slow.

Sherlock huffed. "Are you aware that this is the third time you have told me to shut up withinng–ngh!" He was cut off abruptly by a firm hand over his mouth.

"I've wanted to do that for ages," John growled into Sherlock's ear. "It's one of the things I regretted never having done when you were alive. I made a promise at your grave to catch up on all of that if you ever came back – this is number one on my list! And don't you dare biting me!" He let go of Sherlock, who eyed him dubiously from his sitting position.

But instead of the stream of insults he expected, Sherlock withdrew his hand from the bundle in his lap, holding out an empty syringe. John blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

"The Foley, John!"

"You gotta be kidding," John deadpanned.

"John," Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "We have about twenty seconds until the elevator reaches the ground level. Sufficient time. If you do not remove the Foley catheter, I shall do it myself –"

"OK!" John exclaimed, yanking the syringe from his fingers. "Oh God," he groaned as he knelt down between Sherlock's knees, shoving the sheet out of the way. He quickly connected the syringe to the port and began withdrawing the water from the balloon while Sherlock took off the strap on his leg. Suddenly, John chuckled. "You do know what this looks like, right? If the doors of that elevator open … you naked, me, between your legs."

Sherlock smirked and handed him some gauze. "It means you should not play _spin_ _the_ _bottle_ this year at the Yard's Christmas party."

"Oh God, for ff…sssake!" John hissed, realisation hitting him. "Great," he growled, "thank you. This year I can definitely NOT solemnly swear _I've never touched Sherlock's cock. _Brilliant," he muttered while pulling out the catheter and disposing of it in the corner of the elevator. "And what now?" he asked, bundling Sherlock up in sheet and blanket. "Now we run," Sherlock announced.

The elevator doors slid open. They were on the ground floor, somewhere close to the delivery area for the canteen kitchen. The air was crackling with panic, and a wall of noise hit them – people shouting, sirens wailing, engines howling.

"They'll know by now we've escaped," Sherlock said, "we can't join the crowd. Streets are too narrow, we'd be trapped." He nodded at the stream of people heading for the exits on Tooley Street where most of the police and undoubtedly Moriarty's men were.

"Riverside, then," John declared and swung the wheelchair around. They avoided several policemen trying to channel the masses of people and generally fighting the panic threatening to break out among the patients.

"Have you got your phone?" John panted while running towards the exit, trying hard not to bump into people. "Sorry," he wheezed, grazing a nurse's toes, incurring a torrent of curses.

"No signal, as expected," Sherlock said and slipped the mobile back under his sheet.

"Damnit," John hissed as they emerged under the white pillars facing the Thames. He was greeted by a gust of cold wind carrying moist river smell and a faint drizzle; here, people were streaming along the Thames as well, heading for the pier or further on towards Tower Bridge. John groaned: great, so much for their plan to slip away – and being out in that clammy weather was the last thing Sherlock needed, recovering from pneumonia and wearing nothing but a sheet. Nevertheless, they joined the throng, moving sluggishly down the walkway.

"Sherlock, we should – what's wrong?!" he screamed, panic rising. Sherlock had suddenly dropped his head to his chest, collapsing in the chair. John grabbed him by the shoulder. "Sherlock, speak to me! What's wrong?"

"Nothing, John," Sherlock drawled, "I'm in a coma, remember?"

"What?" John frowned, but resumed pushing the wheelchair.

"Look discreetly ahead, men with guns, not the police. Do you see them?"

"Shit," John hissed, "yeah. What now?"

"You're conveniently dressed in scrubs, I'm a patient. Maybe they don't recognize us. Try to avoid a shoot-out in this crowd, will you?"

"Not keen on it," John growled and sped up a bit, trying to get as far away from the false policemen lining the embankment as possible. They managed to dodge the first few, but when they reached the pavillion next to the pier, they were stuck. Too many people clustered, unwilling to go any further, not realising what was going on and clogging up the area. John didn't want to think about what would happen if panic broke out now.

"Sherlock, we're stuck," John bit out between gritted teeth.

"Yes. Keep moving."

"I'd love to, but we're stuck in a crowd, remember?" John fought to keep the panic from his voice. The slow moving throng left them no room to change their route – John tried to get people to make way by shouting at them in his best military voice. "Please move on! Make room, please, we need to get through! I'm a doctor with a patient, let me through!" It was useless: most people were too focused on themselves, others simply didn't listen, and the rest was just as stuck as they were.

"Damnit," John hissed, "they've seen us."

"Where?" Sherlock asked, head still lolling, faking unconsciousness.

"Right ahead, two thugs coming straight at us, shit!"

"Let them. Keep up the pretense. Don't pull your gun."

"I don't intend to," John grated, "last thing we need is a panic. By the way, coma patients don't talk, Sherlock."

He was greeted with a world-weary sigh. "Get us as close to the river as possible."

"The railing of the pavilion is right in front of us, Sherlock. Any closer and we're taking a dive in the Thames."

"Hardly." Sherlock lifted his head ever so slightly. "I'm in a wheelchair and you're too short. Neither of us is going to topple over the railing."

"Then we'll bump our knees, Mr smart-arse," John snarled. "I hope you have a plan. And here we go," he muttered, changing his expression into a relieved mask. "Sir! Oh thank God for coming over, we need help here, we're stuck! I was trying to get my patient to one of the buses but we were lost in the crowd. I'd be so grateful if you could – hey!"

The hulking man in front of him grabbed Sherlock's hair, yanking his head up.

"What are you doing?!" John yelled. "This is police violence! Help!"

A second man, tall and wiry, appeared next to him, pressing the muzzle of a gun into his side. "Shut up, Dr Watson." He nodded at his companion, "What's with him?"

"Vegetable," the man chuckled, giving Sherlock's head another tug, and Sherlock, mouth hanging open, let his eyes roll back quite impressively.

"Holy shit," the other man shuddered. "So much for genius."

The genius, however, came to life in a flash, kneeing his opponent in the balls with stunning force; the man doubled over instantly, a gasp escaping his mouth, knocked out cold. John wasted no time tackling his own opponent: he twisted away from the gun, punching the man square in the face and clamped his fingers around the hand holding the gun. A fierce struggle for the weapon ensued, the gun firing into the air; people around them screamed and started pushing forward, desperately trying to get away from the fight, triggering the dreaded panic reaction.

John was still busy subduing his opponent, when Sherlock rammed a pair of scissors into the man's thigh, making him roar with pain. John punched him hard, but the man was still staggering, refusing to give up. Sherlock moved the wheelchair forward, pushing into him; he got up as far as he could and slammed his fist into the man's ribcage. John used the distraction and bore down on his opponent with all his strength; they crashed into the railing, and with combined forces they managed to topple him over it. A loud splash was followed by shouting and thrashing.

"Told you," Sherlock wheezed, collapsing to the ground, "it's not easy to topple over the railing." He groaned and doubled over, trembling from pain and exhaustion.

Cursing under his breath, John gathered him up and heaved him back into the wheelchair. "Stay awake, Sherlock, please," he muttered, dragging the blanket over him.

"I am awake, John," Sherlock rasped, "more than I care to be," he hissed, desperately trying to stifle a groan and failing miserably.

"Just hold on," John huffed and broke into a run, skillfully manoeuvring the wheelchair through the masses of fleeing people. "At least they're moving now," John muttered. "We need to get out of here before the crowd tramples us!"

Sherlock just wheezed.

Towards Tower Bridge, the crowds thinned and John slowed down to a rhythmic trot. "Try the phone again, will you?" he huffed. "And why the hell is there no public phone booth? Oh, sod it!" He jogged along, eyes darting to all sides, looking out for more of Moriarty's men.

"Phone's not working," Sherlock muttered, shoving it back into the pillow case.

"What have you got in that bundle, anyway?" John asked curiously. "Any more useful stuff? Knifes, guns, grenades?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock chided. "They don't keep weapons in a hospital room."

"Didn't stop you from turning a syringe and a pair of scissors into pretty deadly instruments," John chuckled.

"True," Sherlock smiled, pressing a hand against his ribs.

"Do you think you've torn anything?" John asked quietly.

"No," Sherlock ground out. "Just general pain."

They were approaching the City Hall now, with Tower Bridge looming ahead; at the Scoop, London's odd amphitheater, the throng finally dissolved, as people spread out into the wide area surrounding the dent in the ground and the egg-shaped glass construction of the City Hall.

"Alright, let's take a break here," John slowed down, huffing out a long breath. "Someone must be able to help us. We need to get–"

"I've got a signal," Sherlock interrupted him, holding out the phone.

"Jesus! Yes!" John snatched the mobile from his fingers. "I'll call Mycroft. Jesus …" he muttered, stabbing furiously at the phone. "Shit. Sherlock," he frowned, "I can't find your brother's number, neither under _M_ nor _H_–" he looked up in horror. "You know it by heart, right?"

Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. "I delete useless information, you know that, John."

"Sherlock!" John hollered, "This is not funny! We're in a bloody awful situation–"

"Try the letter Q," Sherlock sighed.

"Q?" John skipped through the alphabet, dumbfounded. "There's only one entry – haha, very funny, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes and hit the dial button. "If this is a joke, I'll strangle you."

Sherlock just closed his eyes, a sunny smile on his too pale face.

"Right. It's ringing. Huh." John cleared his throat, straightening imperceptibly. Sherlock squinted up at him, smirking. John gave him a stern look. "Sherlock, if I'm rousting the _Queen_ from her bed thanks to you – hang on," he broke off, staring at the phone. "The line's gone dead." Cursing under his breath, he dialled again. "Damnit!" He tried several more times, randomly dialling everyone he knew. "I don't understand," he said, perplexed. "Every time I have a connection, it gets interrupted. Maybe we should try it further away, though the signal's not really the problem."

Sherlock just pulled the blanket up to his chest, huddling under it. He was still smiling to himself, seemingly untroubled, but John noticed how frail he looked; it hit him that they were out in the cold, the chill seeping into his bones despite all the running, and the persistent drizzle threatened to turn into a proper London downpour any minute now. Sherlock in his sheet was inviting death. John didn't even have a jacket to drape around him, being clad only in scrubs over a long-sleeved shirt.

"Okay, we'll move up to the street, stop the next passer-by, force them to call Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, anyone, even Harry, I don't care – or better, we stop a car and get them to take us to the nearest hospital – no, bad idea, will be full of evacuees – the Yard, then. That's better. Sounds like a plan," John hummed and started running, pushing the wheelchair around the Scoop at a breakneck speed.

"John," Sherlock protested.

"No," John huffed, "we need to get you warm. Priority!"

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

"There are people over there, see?" John wheezed, "We'll ask them!"

"John, listen!"

"Nope, need help," John panted, giving an extra vigorous push, just before he crashed full speed into the suddenly static wheelchair: exclaiming in surprise, he toppled head first over Sherlock's shoulder. The handle dug painfully into his stomach but he was still driven by his own momentum, landing face down in Sherlock's lap, wheezing and desperately clawing at the chair to get his balance back.

A firm hand grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him. "John," Sherlock demanded, "listen."

"Damnit, Sherlock!" Spluttering, John scrambled back to his feet. "You put the bloody brakes on! Are you trying to kill me?"

"You weren't listening, John."

"What? You mad – oh, sod it," wincing, he rubbed his bruised stomach.

"John, we need to go to Potters Fields."

"Huh?" John stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Potters Fields. Do you need me to spell it?" Sherlock looked at him with raised brows, mouth pinched.

"I heard you," John snapped. "Why the hell do you want to go there?"

"It's just around the corner. Get going, John!" Sherlock snapped.

"I bloody know where it is, Sherlock! Plus, I know what it is: a wind-swept patch of grass next to Tower Bridge and sodding cold – no way am I taking you there!"

"John, please, it's important." Sherlock tilted his face up to him, looking all pale and vulnerable.

"Don't try that look on me," John growled, "I know what you're doing."

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Mycroft will pick us up. Leave the phone on, he'll follow the signal."

"If he follows the signal, he can do so while we are in a nice warm car on our way to the Yard," John declared, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and pushing it forward.

Sherlock slammed the brakes on again.

John hissed in anger. "Release the brakes," he demanded quietly, his voice threatening.

"I'll walk if you don't take me there," Sherlock stated just as quietly.

"As if you could," John spat.

They remained silent for a long moment, locked in a stubborn struggle.

Finally, Sherlock sighed, and he sounded utterly exhausted. "Trust me, John." His lips were almost blue and trembling from the cold, John noted, and he was clenching his hands in his lap to keep them steady. "Please, will you do this for me?"

John walked around the chair, stopping in front of it. He straightened his back and crossed his arms. "You have nerves, asking me that," he growled in a low voice, barely above a whisper. "You know what happened the last time you said those exact words."

"Yes, I stepped off a building. And you know why I did it," Sherlock responded, clamping his mouth shut to stop his teeth from chattering.

"That doesn't undo the damage, Sherlock," John replied, steely composure written all over him. "I've read your diary. I know you better than ever. I _understand_. But it doesn't make the anger go away, or the pain."

Sherlock stared at him intently, eyes flickering, taking in every emotion mirrored on his face. "Yes," he finally said, "I see." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Is there anything I can do to make it better?"

John nodded. "Yes. Stop shutting me out. That's what led to this whole disaster."

"I'm not shutting you out," Sherlock grated.

"Yes, you are. You shut me out before the fall, and you did it again after your return. You don't ask me whether I want your protection or not – just like your brother, by the way. It drives you mad when Mycroft interferes, but you're doing the same thing to me. You don't give me a chance to decide whether I want to go along with your plans or not. You just storm ahead."

Sherlock scoffed, "It's hardly my fault if you are too slow to follow my train of thought. I did explain to you. Have you any idea how tedious that is? And I wrote that diary to let you in, John. That was its sole purpose," he spat, annoyance written all over him.

"Right." John felt a sudden burning pain in his chest, the same kind of hurt that had haunted him ever since Sherlock's return. They were back to scratch. "Sometimes you bothered to explain. But not always. Not now. You're not telling me why you want to go to Potters Fields."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Mycroft will pick us up. The phone signal, John. Do keep up!"

John wanted to shout at him for his impertinence, wanted to yell _do you take me for a complete fool?_ but suddenly he noticed that Sherlock's fingers were twitching and pointing at him, giving him some kind of signal.

John stared blankly at Sherlock, his mind racing. "Okay, sorry. Uhm, I'm just exhausted and … freaked out. Forgot you told me. Hey," he stepped closer, "peace, okay? Friends, right?" Bending down, he said, "Come here."

Sherlock stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. "John, what are you – don't force me – I-"

"It's a hug, you clot!" John scoffed, and it certainly was, but probably the world's most awkward one. John wrapped his arms around Sherlocks stiff shoulders and brought his mouth next to his ear, whispering, "I trust you."

Sherlock exhaled a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Right." John released Sherlock and straightened into his military stance. "Potters Fields. Let's go."


	49. Potters Fields

**Potters Fields**

Potters Fields Park at night glowed in the light of the surrounding buildings as John wheeled Sherlock towards the sweeping expanse of grass. Tower Bridge was looming in front of them, illuminated by spotlights, and the Tower itself squatted on the opposite side of the Thames. Along the walkway, a chain of streetlamps cast a warm glow across the path, in stark contrast with the harsh white lights installed under the three steps running along the entire length of the fields. During the day, those would be occupied by people taking a break and enjoying the view, now, the park was oddly deserted.

"Over there," Sherlock mumbled, directing John to the far end of the green expanse, closest to Tower Bridge. John parked the wheelchair next to the tall steps and sat down on the stone surface, side by side with Sherlock. The light from underneath the steps cast an eerie glow on their faces, making them both look gaunt and worn out, and John thought this would be the death of them, sitting in the cold air on moist ground, as he tugged the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders, noticing how hollow his cheeks were.

Lost in his own worries, he didn't even notice that he had laid a fingertip to the almost invisible bruise under Sherlock's eye, where the ice pick piercing into his skull had caused the haemorrhage. He swallowed hard, swamped by uninvited images of what Sherlock might have become, his mind destroyed, and the horror was made all the more vivid by the memory of Sherlock faking unconsciousness, slumped in the wheelchair, his head yanked back by Moriarty's man, eyes rolling into the skull. It ignited an unexpected panic in his chest, sending his heart into a frenzy, the sound of it filling his ears with white noise. It was the light touch of Sherlock's hand on his wrist that snapped him out of his mental trap. He let go, his hand falling into Sherlock's lap, staying there, cradled by cold fingers.

"John," Sherlock's voice was much warmer than his skin, and his eyes were bright and intent, focused entirely on John. "It will be over very soon."

"What, exactly?" he bit out for the sake of saying something, terrified of bursting into tears.

"The fall," Sherlock said calmly. "It ends here."

"I thought it ended on the pavement of St. Bart's," John remarked dryly. "Looked bloody final to me."

"Yes. But I kept falling three years," Sherlock explained, his voice suddenly light, incongruous with the weight of his words. "And now the fall is broken by my safety net." He turned away, looking out over the Thames.

"What do you mean?" John asked, the panic suddenly rising again.

"You." Sherlock smiled, "and Mycroft, of course," he conceded resignedly.

"I don't understand," John blinked in confusion, irrational fear taking over and making his skin crawl.

Sherlock exhaled slowly, turning his face back towards him. "I once said _alone is what protects me_ – I have never been more wrong. But I do not make a mistake twice."

"Um, that's good, I guess." John cleared his throat, looking around. The hairs on his neck were prickling, and he didn't know why. "So, what are we doing here?"

"Waiting for Mycroft, of course," Sherlock sighed, pulling John's hand, still cradled in his, into the warmth of the blanket.

John was pleasantly surprised by the affectionate gesture. "Sherlock," he began, but broke off, breath catching in his throat: suddenly, the light from behind was blocked out, and the oblong shadow of a man with an umbrella loomed up, casting them into darkness.

"So sweet," a familiar voice chuckled. John stiffened as light footsteps sounded on stone and the man brushed past him to parade languidly in front of them, immaculately dressed in a grey suit and matching coat.

John's face fell, and he fought the sudden urge to jump up and throw a few punches, but he felt Sherlock's hand tighten, holding him back.

A sneer greeted him, as observant eyes noticed the small gesture. "Oh, I hope I'm not severing the tender bonds of love, here. But, Dr Watson, you're a married man, now – what a pity, given that Sherlock has just discovered his sexuality in Russia. But then you are not gay, are you?"

John just stared back coldly.

Moriarty's mouth split into his best predatory grin. "This is a turn-up, huh," he drawled, looking at Sherlock. "Last time we met, you were waiting for me, and your brother appeared. This time, you're waiting for him, and it's me showing up." He laughed softly. "You got it wrong again."

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh, cut off by a quickly stifled cough. "What makes you think so?"

Moriarty stopped his pacing and faced him squarely. "Well, the fact that I am here. And your brother is not. He's on a wild goose chase, following a trail I left for him, so subtle only he can detect it," he sniggered, "which is why he believes it's genuine." Moriarty's face creased into a pained grimace. "Too bad for you."

John stiffened, remembering with growing horror that Mycroft had indeed hinted at following a lead on Moriarty.

"And why do you bother with all this?" Sherlock breathed.

Moriarty's face became deadly serious. "I told you, I owe you a fall. And fall you did, but you were cheating. Running off, fooling everyone with the help of sweet Molly Hooper – oh, don't worry about her," Moriarty rolled his eyes at John, who's face had transformed into a mask of horror. "I won't harm her. I like the idea too much that the lamb is such a little lioness." He grinned to himself. "Though I'm a bit envious of the kind of loyalty you inspire, Sherlock. But you seem to have picked up on it: taking that bullet for dear Dr Watson … and now look at you," Moriarty's eyes roamed over Sherlock in the wheelchair. "I could break your neck with one hand."

"You'd have to break mine first," John growled, anger flaring. "And that won't be so easy."

"Oh, ouh, yes, I forgot!" Moriarty guffawed. "I all but forgot about _the_ _pet_. Dogs do tend to defend their master. But then, they get their throats cut for it. Come to think of it, please hand over your weapon, Dr Watson. It is rather visible in the trousers of this fetching blue outfit. If you don't, I'll have one of my snipers shoot Sherlock in the shoulder. Don't think I don't have guns pointed at you just because there are no red dots dancing on your chest. But don't worry, I'm not gonna kill Sherlock, I want him as a pawn to negotiate with his brother. Or," he sneered, "as a toy, perhaps."

He stepped in front of John, holding out his hand expectantly. John hesitated, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst; he briefly considered pulling the gun and shooting Moriarty straight in the head, but he felt Sherlock tugging on his fingers, so he gave in, handing over the gun.

"Good boy," Moriarty taunted and flung it over his shoulder straight into the Thames.

"What is it you want?" Sherlock asked, sounding bored.

Moriarty stepped closer and gave him a calculating look. "I told you, Sherlock, if you don't stop prying, I'll burn the heart out of you. But you kept prying … taking my network apart, enduring weeks of dull reconnaissance work, living in squalor, killing all those boring people – despite my best efforts to obstruct you. Not bad." He raised his brows, twisting the umbrella with one hand, not unlike Mycroft. "But you really surprised me when you got to the big fish Michail, stealing his secrets without him ever noticing." He barked out a laugh, grinning into the sky. "You made my day when you scampered off with that phone after having shagged Irina senseless. Really, Sherlock, you should be grateful: I made you discover hidden talents in you; but I'm grateful too," he nodded, abruptly serious. "Those were the most amusing three years of my life. Watching you excel – and suffer. I was never bored. But it's enough now." He rammed the umbrella into the ground. "You've all but destroyed my network, my finest sniper is in custody, and I'm no longer in the Russians' good books. I need to return to rebuild my empire. Now, I owe the world a resurrection, just like you. Though I have loved this …" He smiled to himself. "Well, back to business. Your brother will be of infinite help to me, given his position and his resources."

"If you think my brother would do anything endangering Queen and country, you're a moron," Sherlock drawled. "Mycroft is boring. Boringly quaint, loyal, and predictable. Born and bred British. This is why you were able to play him so well."

Moriarty just shrugged. "We'll see. If he doesn't comply, I can still keep you as my pet." He sauntered towards Sherlock, leaning forward. "It's a pity, though, that you'll never be as loyal as the good doctor here. Just imagine, Sherlock, you and me, our minds combined," he cooed, bringing his face close to Sherlock's. "We would make the world tremble in awe and fear."

Their eyes were locked in a silent exchange that had John watching in confusion and disgust. Just as he was about to lean in and interfere, he felt Sherlock slipping something into his hand under the blanket. It was a syringe, he realised, plunger pulled back, cap covering the needle. He had no idea what Sherlock planned, but he obviously wanted him to conceal the syringe, so he hid it in his palm, and when he withdrew his hand from Sherlock's lap, let it slide into his sleeve.

Moriarty and Sherlock were still studying one another, each assessing the opponent with a relentless glare. "No," Moriarty breathed, "I can't convince you to leave the side of the angels, but I can do other things …" he trailed off, and lifting his hand, he delicately raised the blanket and moved the sheet aside, revealing Sherlock's chest. Trailing his fingertips around the tape securing the central venous catheter, he muttered, "So damaged. Imagine what I could do to you." Grinning, he slid his hand further down, peeled the sheet away and exposed the wound dressing; lingering there, he asked, "What did it feel like when the bullet hit you and that lung shrivelled up, choking you from within? Similar to the waterboarding?"

John couldn't control his boiling anger any longer. "If you don't stop molesting him, I'm going to–"

"John," Sherlock cut him off, his voice cold. "He's provoking you, don't you see?"

Moriarty straightened his back abruptly. "Too bad. But I suppose one can't have everything."

Sherlock just scoffed.

John pressed his lips together, the veins in his temples throbbing. A strange mixture of rage, fear, hatred and desperation coursed through him, threatening to block the clarity he normally felt during situations of extreme danger. He bit his lips to make himself feel something other than the useless desire to launch himself against Moriarty and rip off his face.

"Oh, Dr Watson, you're such a kill-joy," Moriarty frowned. "And sooo booring. I don't understand why Sherlock keeps you around."

"The loyalty thing, remember," John snapped with false mirth.

"Oh yes," Moriarty sighed in annoyance. "That's why I shall have to kidnap both of you. Can't coerce one without threatening the other."

John pouted."Why bother at all?"

Moriarty looked at him with mild interest.

John raised his shoulders. "Why come for us at all? Why now, why not earlier in the hospital? You had plenty of time."

"Sherlock," Moriarty prompted.

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "He had surveillance in the hospital room, obviously, John! He knew I was about to wake up. There's no point in kidnapping a corpse."

"Or a vegetable," Moriarty drawled. "Boring."

Stunned, John gaped. "You, what?"

Moriarty sniggered. "It was sooo endearing, watching you crying your eyes out and fussing over Sherlock." He laughed out loud, "You are a veritable mother hen, Dr Watson! Cooing over Sherlock, changing his bandages, bathing him, pleading with him." He smirked. "Like an old couple."

"Are you envious?" John quipped, surprising himself.

Moriarty's face froze for the fraction of a second. "Don't be ridiculous."

"If you were so well informed," John retorted, "then why did your men not go straight to our room in the hospital? Why search the entire ICU? Was it to enjoy watching us running?"

"I'd love to say yes, Dr Watson," Moriarty sighed, "but in fact, they were just being idiots. That's what happens when you employ army guys. They're like trained monkeys – do everything by the numbers. Anyway, I knew all I had to do was follow the phone signal. Of course Sherlock would eventually call big brother." He sneered at Sherlock, who just shrugged.

Moriarty abruptly turned his head, listening. "Ah. Punctual."

The sound of a boat drawing nearer at full speed filled the air; within seconds, the roaring engine approached the embankment. "I prefer to travel by boat, these days," Moriarty drawled. "So much quicker."

"Hardly a surprise," Sherlock raised a brow, "after your bungled getaway on London Bridge when you were so ingloriously stuck in a mundane traffic jam."

Moriarty shot him a look of pure hatred.

A police boat pulled up alongside the wall lining the pathway, bumping into it softly.

"Lucky for you that the tide is high, wouldn't want to get that suit slimy climbing down a rope ladder, would you?" Sherlock mocked.

"Not lucky, Sherlock," Moriarty stared at him coldly. "Planning."

John scoffed. "Huh, nice cover, pretending to be the police."

"If you want to hide in a flock of sheep, wear a sheepskin." Moriarty shrugged.

"So," Sherlock sighed, "what is your brilliant plan?"

"Oh, it's rather straight forward," Moriarty replied. "We'll get on the boat."

"You don't seriously expect me to get up and climb on board that boat," Sherlock snorted.

"No, actually I expect Dr Watson to help you."

"Don't," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh," Moriarty rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Don't be such a fusspot. Just get it over with."

"No," Sherlock declared, looking bored, and John just sat with his arms folded, carefully cradling the syringe in his sleeve and pretending to be unimpressed.

"On the boat now," Moriarty sang out smiling, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

Sherlock just pouted.

"You know I can force you, Sherlock," Moriarty said casually.

"What, you'll call some of your bullies out from behind the trees and drag me, yes?" Sherlock snorted. "It'll be a while until they're here. Long walk."

"Oh, don't be silly," Moriarty scoffed. Without bothering to turn around, he snapped a finger at the boat, and immediately two burly men, both armed, came out from the cabin and began climbing over the side of the boat. The first was just stepping onto the brightly lit wall of the embankment and preparing to jump down,but suddenly, there was a hiss, followed by a dull thud; the man baulked, jerking backwards as if punched; for a second, a fine red spray gleamed in the air, then the man fell back down, body going limp. His companion yelled in surprise and instantly threw himself to the ground, taking cover on the boat as several shots hit the stone wall, sending razor sharp chips flying.

John's heart clenched in shock, adrenaline racing through his veins. He saw Moriarty turn, reptilian eyes darting back and forth, realisation dawning on him; saw him swerving towards the boat, but there was only one thought in John's mind: protect Sherlock. "Get down!" he yelled and threw himself over Sherlock, trying to cover him. Sherlock, however, had launched himself forward, darting out of the wheelchair and lunging for Moriarty. John landed painfully across the chair, tumbling down, and accidentally knocked Sherlock sideways, sending him crashing to the ground. Growling in anger, Sherlock grappled Moriarty's legs, bringing him down as well.

John scrambled to his knees and crawled towards Sherlock, trying to cover him, but Sherlock squirmed away, refusing to let go of Moriarty who was furiously lashing out, almost kicking him in the face.

"Get him, John!" Sherlock roared, tangled in his sheet and desperately trying to avoid the vicious kicks. John saw the sudden glint of metal in the light, and without thinking, he hurled himself towards the criminal, lunging for the gun in his hand. Horrified, he thought the nightmare on London Bridge was repeating itself: the muzzle was suddenly pointing at him, and as he grappled for the gun, Moriarty managed to twist it towards Sherlock. John bellowed in rage and threw himself over Moriarty, pinning him down with his weight and simply, desperately biting him in the wrist. He was vaguely aware of the criminal dropping the weapon and crying out, the scream oddly turning into a mad guffaw of laughter. "Good!" Moriarty scoffed, "done a lot of schoolyard fighting, have you, Dr Watson?"

John just snarled and reached for the gun but could not grab it – instead, he manged to give it a push, sending it slithering out of reach. Moriarty used that moment of distraction to punch him viciously and shake him off; before John could get a hold on him, he rebounded and made for the boat.

John cursed and quickly ducked his head as bullets whizzed past him, shattering the windows of the boat. The engine was roaring, he realised, ready to cast off as soon as Moriarty was on board. Squinting out from under his arms, he saw armed police forces swarming across the green expanse.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed, "don't let him get away!"

Groaning, he turned his head to see Sherlock feebly trying to get up.

"Damnit," John snarled, getting to his knees, crouching low to avoid the line of fire. He saw Moriarty successfully dodging a bullet – but then a shot went off at close range, hitting him in the leg and sending him sprawling. Confused, John twisted his head to see where the bullet had come from, and his eyes fell on Sherlock, lying on his side, panting madly, Moriarty's revolver in his hand.

"Get him, John," he spluttered, "he wants them to shoot him." Coughing, he rolled onto his stomach and dropped the gun, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed, "The syringe, John …"

And finally John understood: Moriarty wanted to get killed. He couldn't make it to the boat – the police would stop him; and even if he succeeded to escape, Mycroft's men would intercept the boat easily enough. But Moriarty intended to avoid being captured under all circumstances, and all he had to do was pretend to pull a gun: then, the police would shoot to kill.

But Sherlock wanted him alive, so John jumped to his feet and tackled Moriarty on the ground. They grappled and scuffled with each other, John almost getting choked to death as Moriarty managed to claw his fingers into his throat; his vision blurred and everything turned grey and blotchy, but just as the world seemed to crumple in on itself, he brought the syringe to his mouth, pulled off the cap and blindly stabbed the needle into flesh. He had no memory of pushing the plunger, and apparently he had passed out for a moment, for when he came to, he was lying on his back, spluttering and coughing, and Moriarty had crawled away from him before collapsing.

Police was swarming all over the place now, and his first instinct was to run straight to Sherlock, so he shook off the helping hands trying to make him stay on the ground; but he needed to make sure Moriarty was no longer a threat – too often the criminal mastermind had fooled them; so he scrambled to he knees and croaked: "Tie him up! Tie the bastard up, for God's sake!"

And they did.

In a daze, he found his feet; staggering, he stumbled forward, desperately trying not to fall again despite the earth swaying madly. "Sherlock," he groaned, shaking his head to clear the lingering fog from it, and all of a sudden he had to fight a bout of nausea making him retch: all he could see was a pale figure lying outstretched on the ground, face down; two policemen crouching next to it; a sheet, half-draped across the body, and no movement, no movement at all – a shroud and a corpse.

"Oh God, please no," he gasped, stumbling forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone running at full speed, sprinting across the stretch of grass, long legs carrying the man faster than his companions, outrunning all of them. Something was incongruous, he vaguely thought as he fell to his knees next to Sherlock, but only when his fingers had found the pulse point and he had reassured himself of the blessed throbbing of the artery did he realise that the runner had been Mycroft Holmes.

"Is he–" Mycroft broke off, coming to a halt as if thunderstruck, eyes fixed on the still figure in recovery position.

"He's alive," John assured him, thinking that Mycroft had to be extremely upset if his deductive skills let him down so badly. "Just out cold from exhaustion – it's a miracle he didn't collapse earlier." He looked at Mycroft, who still just stood there with his face flushed from running, a rare expression of concern on his face. He looked pretty much ready to keel over himself, John thought. "Don't worry too much, he's doing fine. He's probably hypothermic and we need to check for fractures, though I don't think he's broken anything. I'm more worried about pneumonia and infection," he sighed as he checked Sherlock's breathing again.

Mycroft took off his jacket, and kneeling down, he wordlessly folded it up and placed it under his brother's head; one hand remained lightly on Sherlock's shoulder, John noticed, while the other briefly sneaked into his curls.

As soon as the paramedics arrived, Mycroft stepped back and John did the same. They gave him a blanket and offered to take him to an ambulance as well, but he refused. So they both stood and watched as the team took charge, covering Sherlock with a thermal blanket and monitoring his vitals.

"So," John said after a while, "you knew Moriarty was laying a false trail for you?"

Mycroft heaved a deep sigh, undoubtedly aware of what was coming. "Yes, John, I expected him to do so."

"So you knew," John carried on relentlessly, "that he had surveillance on the hospital."

"Yes," came the cool reply. "A most convenient way of tracking him and his associates."

John turned to face him squarely. "Did you also know he had eyes in the room itself? That he saw me, breaking down, snivelling like a child? That he watched as the doctors examined your brother, as the nurses attended to his needs, cleaned him up, changed the bandages, disinfected the catheters, suctioned his lungs?"

Mycroft looked at him calmly. "Why else would I have him moved to this particular room?"

John just gaped, speechless, as the horrific realisation dawned on him.

Mycroft graced him with a smug smile. "Anyway, as far as I know, most of these rather intimate ministrations were carried out by you."

"Sherlock hardly tolerated anyone!" John barked.

"Naturally," Mycroft smiled.

"What do you mean, _naturally_?" John spat. When he received no answer, he rolled his eyes. "Oh not you, too! I've had enough of those stupid allusions–"

"I'm not alluding to anything, John," Mycroft smiled benignly. "I am, however, extremely grateful to you for your devotion. And so is Sherlock, I am certain."

"I'm not so sure he's grateful for Moriarty watching him in his weakest moments," John grated, anger still burning almost painfully in his chest.

"Oh, but he knew, of course," Mycroft replied lightly.

"He was in a coma, for God's sake!" John burst out.

"Sherlock understood as soon as he woke up. Consequently, he deduced my plan immediately." Mycroft gave him a smug smile.

John's face fell. "That's why he wanted to get away," he stated, baffled. "He was so hellbent on leaving the hospital – he wanted to lure Moriarty away before he could wreak havoc in the hospital; he was playing the bait!"

"I see, you follow," Mycroft's smile was now dangerously close to a sneer.

John stood, pondering in silence whether he should be annoyed, and if so, who was to blame, and whether he was a fool or not. In the end, he settled for simply being happy that both Sherlock and Mycroft had faith in him. God knew, Sherlock would need someone to trust if he was to deal with the physical and mental consequences of the torture. But they would tackle that later, and together.

As they both watched the paramedics working on Sherlock, John mused, "He wasn't so clever, after all, then. Moriarty, I mean. He underestimated you."

"Perhaps," Mycroft replied without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "Moriarty's error of estimation was due to the fact that he calculated my reactions according to what he knew about me from the past. I believed Moriarty dead – that was my greatest error – so, before his reappearance, I acted as if we were dealing with normal crimes and average criminals. Once I knew Moriarty was back, I had to level up. He failed to foresee that I would."

"You mean you gave up on the idea of having Sherlock sectioned," John said mildly, "and finally had faith in him."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "If you insist on simplifying it to this, so be it. However, Moriaty made another mistake, John, a mistake far graver than underestimating me."

"And what would that be?" John asked, folding his hands behind his back.

Mycroft seemed entirely focused on watching as Sherlock was put on an ambulance stretcher. "He didn't realise that my brother – despite our differences – had faith in my abilities."

John chuckled. "Just say it, Mycroft."

"What?" Mycroft Holmes looked at him in bewilderment, and John felt a sudden surge of glee. "That Sherlock trusts you, and that you trust him. Blindfolded."

Mycroft pouted, scrutinising him intently, but he remained silent.

John just smiled, adding, "I might even be so bold as to say: you love each other."

That," Mycroft Holmes stated, taking a deep breath, "would indeed be _very_ bold, Dr Watson." With that, he turned and sauntered over to the policemen and the officer-in-charge waiting to report to him.

~ 0 ~

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**A few more chapters, because I couldn't get myself to stop here.**


	50. Going Home

**As ever, thank you for your reviews. I'm floored. And running out of ways of saying thank you. :-)**

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**Going Home**

John insisted on accompanying Sherlock in the ambulance, but there was no danger of Sherlock waking up: he was completely knocked out, the constantly disregarded transport finally prevailing. When they wheeled him into the A&E department, John was marched off by an orderly, despite his protests, to have his bruised throat checked out and the various scrapes and scratches attended to. Higher orders, it seemed.

Since it was a busy night and the place was crowded with evacuees from the London Bridge Hospital, he had to wait a long time before a tired looking trainee appeared. John assured him that he was fine and all he needed was a helping hand with the sticking plaster in places where he couldn't reach – which were quite a few, given his battered state.

When he finally emerged from A&E, he felt more done in by the wailing of overtired children and the general racket of dozens of people waiting to be treated than by a Taliban insurgency. Lost, he looked around, trying to figure out where in the unfamiliar maze of corridors he could find someone to get news on Sherlock, and make a phone call. Everyone was in a hurry or frantically busy; due to ongoing paintwork, the direction signs were covered with foil (non-transparent, thank you), and he had neither phone nor coat, no money for a cab, and not even a proper pair of shoes since he had worn slippers in the hospital.

"Just my luck," he groaned, but as he turned around, the sun was rising: Mary was there, standing at the end of the corridor, smiling and looking dapper in a dark blue coat and riding boots. She had his holdall with her, undoubtedly packed with proper clothes.

"Oh, Jesus," he sighed and jogged down the corridor, almost knocking over a nurse pushing a trolley. "Sorry," he blurted, "so sorry!" And then he flung himself into her arms, the bag plopping to the floor.

"Jesus," he wheezed again as he buried his face in her neck, and she chuckled, "Not quite, just Mary," and he almost broke down crying, running his hands over her, feeling her warmth, smelling her hair, her skin, simply revelling in her existence. She held him and squeezed him, rubbing his back in a purely sisterly way, but when her lips found his throat, she left no doubt about the un-sisterly nature of their relationship. "Mary," he breathed, "I'm so glad you're here, are you alright?" He held her at a distance, suddenly noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

"I'm fine, John," she smiled. "I was just worried – the evacuation was on the news, and I knew it had something to do with Moriarty. I tried to phone you, but couldn't get through, so I pestered Mycroft's people, but it was hours until they finally gave me the news that you and Sherlock were okay, that my enforced stay at home was over, and that I could come and get you. Mycroft sent a car, of course," she raised a brow. "So, here are your clothes," she picked up the bag, "and I also brought some stuff to stay overnight. I guess you want to be here when Sherlock wakes up – if only to keep him from wreaking havoc."

John looked at her, and suddenly there were tears welling up in his eyes and he felt like a wimp, but it was so good to have her, to know he didn't have to shoulder everything alone, that there was someone else who cared, who understood, who loved him. She read it all in his face, of course, and grinned, "You're not a wimp, John, it's just nerves." And he leaned against her, laying his head on her shoulder and swaying slightly, shedding stress and fear and pain.

"Okay," he rasped after a while, "I'm OK, it's over," and he wasn't sure whether he was speaking to her or to himself.

"Well, get dressed, then," she smiled and gave him a final pat on the back. They found the toilet, and John vanished inside, emerging only a minute later, fully dressed.

"Well, that was quick," Mary chuckled. "OK, then let's see what they've done to Sherlock," she grinned, "or vice versa."

"We have to find him first," John sighed. "This place is utter chaos, swamped with evacuees, you can't even walk down the corridors – I wonder where they're putting up all those additional patients."

"The morgue's probably got some free space. Sherlock wouldn't even mind, I guess."

John giggled. "Not at all; would keep him from shouting _boooored_ all night. But he should be asleep anyway."

Sherlock, it turned out, was very much not asleep. They also had no trouble finding him, because he was bawling at the top of his voice, wavering between bellowing with rage and wailing in distress – the latter a sound John had never heard from him before, scaring him out of his wits.

"Oh my God," he whispered in horror, and started running towards the noise, stumbling into yet another corridor lined with beds from the London Bridge hospital. Mary followed close on his heels and bumped into him as they both came to an abrupt halt, stopped by an orderly two heads taller than John, apparently assigned to the post of keeping everyone away from the rampaging patient.

"What's going on here?" John snapped, taking up a military stance.

"Nothing," the orderly said in a placating voice, "the man is just confused, no reason to worry, Sir. He's fine, only an adverse reaction to pain killers and sedatives."

"Pain killers and sedatives," John repeated. "What _exactly,_ and who is responsible?"

"Sir, that's–"

"I'm his doctor!" John bellowed, just as loud as Sherlock, and was promptly answered by an anguished wail, sounding very much like a long drawn out 'John'.

"Oh, I'm–"

John shoved the orderly aside and pushed through the door. It turned out they had put Sherlock in a storage room, which was, given the current shortage of space, a mercy, but John instantly felt his anger rise. His pulse really sped up, however, when he saw that Sherlock was held down by restraints on his ankles and wrists to keep him from hurting himself; he had managed to cast off the heating blanket anyway, and the oxygen mask was lying on the floor.

John exploded, "Do you at all know what you're doing?! You are dealing with a traumatized torture victim!" He hissed out several breaths to calm down. "He's not lucid, obviously, so why is there no one taking care of him?"

"Sir," the orderly looked genuinely shocked, "I'm sorry, we didn't know that. This is an emergency, and we're hopelessly understaffed. He arrived without a patient file or any instructions, it's possible they were lost on the way up here – I assure you, we're only trying to keep him safe."

"Okay," John huffed, forcing himself to be reasonable despite Sherlock uttering another cry of distress and trying to roll onto his side, the sight of it breaking John's heart. It was too easy to imagine him in a damp Russian basement, struggling against his captors, and it was made so much worse by Sherlock muttering to himself in _bloody_ Russian.

"Who gave him the painkillers and ordered the sedation? And why?"

Finding the answer to that proved difficult, but it seemed Sherlock had unexpectedly woken up while the X-rays were being taken; confused, he had lashed out instantly at anyone coming near him. Apparently, his mind was still stuck in the fight with Moriarty, and hissing and spitting, he had smashed some equipment, headbutted an orderly and kicked the senior consultant in the groin. John didn't blame them for trying to sedate him, but they had neither considered his drug history nor the current medication in his system, so instead of drugging him into oblivion, they had triggered a serious interaction.

John was taking several deep breaths, struggling to keep his anger under control; he briefly considered calling Mycroft, but a hand on his shoulder stilled him. Mary leaned closer, whispering, "John, let's take him home. Everything else can wait. I'll call Mycroft."

"Mary," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We can't just take him home. He needs to be in hospital – Jesus, he needs X-rays taken again tomorrow to check the wound from the chest tube, he needs to be monitored closely for infection, he needs another dose of antibiotics, he needs–" John drifted off into a groan.

"Only for one night, John," Mary said. "He needs rest more than anything and he's not going to get it here. Tomorrow, Mycroft can take him to a hospital or whatever he thinks is the best solution, but tonight he should stay with us. No more carting around, no more strangers."

Sherlock gave another wail, reared up and tugged wildly at his restraints, then suddenly went still, staring at John, his face screwed up. "John?"

"Yeah, it's me Sherlock."

"Iwannogohome," Sherlock slurred, then collapsed back into the pillows, closing his eyes.

Mary raised her brows.

John shook his head. "He needs to stay in hospital. We might face an emergency within minutes. We can't take care of him at home."

Mary folded her arms and said drily, "It doesn't look like they're able to take care of him here either, does it, John?"

Sherlock shot up. "DoesitJohn?" He echoed, his face morphing into a mask of heartbreaking grief, and then into a scowl.

"Jesus," John exclaimed, taking a step back. "This, um, you two-" he pointed at Mary and Sherlock, both glaring at him, "the two of you united, that's bloody scary!"

"Only because we're right," Mary declared, then broke into a grin. "I'll call Mycroft."

"Yeah," John breathed, "okay, you're right." He looked at Sherlock and frowned, deeply worried: Sherlock had burrowed into the pillows as far as possible, given his restraints, and was now sobbing quietly, it seemed. John turned to the orderly, "Look, as I said I'm his doctor, I can take care of him, so get me a wheelchair and his papers and you can hand him over to me. I'm listed as his emergency contact anyway."

The orderly disappeared in a flash, undoubtedly elated at the idea of getting rid of his troublesome patient. John heard Mary in the corridor, patiently explaining, "I know he's been in the ICU only hours ago, but the state he is in suggests that someone's going to get murdered in the next few hours – either him or any member of the staff. They've given him the wrong medication – no, Mycroft, suing them to kingdom come will not help …"

John sighed and slowly approached Sherlock. He was lying with his body awkwardly twisted to the side, head half hidden under the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, wary of triggering a panicked reaction.

"John?" Sherlock whispered without opening his eyes.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here. Open your eyes."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're gone then."

"I'm not."

"Yess, you are … 'mimagining you, 'm always imagining you, remembering your voice …" he trailed off and mumbled something incomprehensible, probably in Russian.

"Sherlock," John said firmly, "I'm very much real, open your eyes."

Opening one eye, Sherlock squinted at him sceptically. As soon as he saw John, his eyes flew open and he bolted from the bed, but was instantly yanked down by the restraints. He gave an angry yell which turned into another distressed whine.

"It's all right, it's all right," John rushed forward, fiddling with the restraints on his arms. "Mary?" he quickly turned around to see her rushing in, setting straight to releasing Sherlock's ankles. "Here we go, you're free now," John muttered as Sherlock worked his hands out of the restraints. "It's okay, you're – whew!" John suddenly found himself enveloped in a crushing hug, with enough force to squeeze the air from his lungs.

"John," Sherlock moaned, "I want to go home."

"Yes, we're going home, Sherlock," John assured him, stroking his back absentmindedly. At least the adversity to being touched seemed to have vanished completely, he thought wryly.

"Home," Sherlock hummed, "John, please, home, 's been sso long …"

John nodded and patted his back. "Yeah, I'm taking you home Sherlock, just give me a minute, okay? Let me have a quick look at you, and – careful with those lines." He disentangled Sherlock from the IV stand, then checked his pupils.

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock drawled, "ssso ssorry." Sherlock leaned back a bit, his arms still around John's neck; he let his head loll, his body going limp, swaying slightly. "Sorry …"

"No need to be sorry," John sighed, "it's okay."

Sherlock suddenly drew himself up and looked at him intently, his face screwed up, showing a mixture of concern and confusion. "You know Mycroft said you'd punch me after … after … after," he frowned, racking his brain, "re-returning," he finally squeezed out, a silly smile spreading over his face. "He was wrong," he crowed, closing his eyes.

John raised his brows. "I don't punch my patients, Sherlock," he declared, "but I might be saving it for later."

Sherlock's face fell. "So you're going to punch me."

John sighed. "Perhaps, but not now."

"Do it now." Sherlock straightened up, presenting his face.

"No," John refused, his tone firm. "I am not going to punch you now."

"Whyever not?" Sherlock protested, scowling.

"Because you're out of your mind and vulnerable." It was said lightly and without much thought, but Sherlock crumpled, his face suddenly turning as white as a sheet. Leaning away, he croaked, "So they succeeded." He let go of John and curled up on the bed, burying his face in his arms.

"Sherlock! Hey," John leaned over him, shocked. "What's wrong? Hey? You with me?" He touched his shoulder and almost recoiled, thinking Sherlock was about to lash out, then belatedly realised that he was crying, desperately trying to stifle the sound of great sobs wracking his body.

"Sherlock," John sat down on the bed, rubbing his back. "You're not making much sense right now. It's the medication. Everything's fine, no need to cry."

"Maybe my brain's damaged," came the muffled reply, "they tried to, John, tried to destroy it … burn it … slice into it, scrape my mind out of me … stabbed me in the eye … 't was …"

John bit his lips. "Shit." He looked at Mary who stared at him aghast, and he just nodded, confirming what Sherlock had said. Her eyes widened in horror and she indicated silently that she would go and organise their departure. He nodded at her thankfully.

"Sherlock," John leaned down and squeezed his shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with your brain. They didn't succeed, you remember? They tried, but failed. You're drugged, they doctors gave you the wrong medication, and that's confusing you. You'll be fine in a couple of hours."

Sherlock slowly sat up, scrutinising John's face. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were red and swollen, but he looked utterly serious and focused. "John, if I …" he inhaled, but stilled, closing his eyes against the pain. Then he spoke again, struggling to enunciate every syllable. "John, if my brain is indeed damaged," he swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing one hand against the chest wound, "and I'm, um, and my mind is gone, and I'm an _idiot, _who can't think, who's _stupid_, dull, boring–"

"Sherlock," John cut him off. "_You're not._ And if you were, I'd still be your friend. I will _always_ be your friend. No matter what you do, who you are, or how idiotic you behave. There. Look at me."

Sherlock warily opened his eyes, reading John's face, taking in every line of worry, the weariness, the pain, the honesty, and the joy of having him back. "John," he mumbled, his face lighting up in wondrous realisation. "You're my only friend."

"Yes, you genius," John chuckled. "But you also have a brother who loves you, and people who care deeply about you. And now let's get you out of here."

It spoke for itself that Sherlock did not protest at the idea that Mycroft loved him, or maybe he was too slow to process it. However, he did process the fact that there was not a single unoccupied wheelchair left, and that he was about to be wheeled through the entire hospital in a toilet chair.

"I'll walk," he declared, almost falling off the bed.

"You will do no such thing," John hummed and removed the bowl from the chair. Throwing a blanket over the frame, he declared, "Looks like a wheelchair now, get into it."

Sherlock just glowered at the wheeled violation of his dignity.

John sighed. "Do you want to go home or not? Hey – eh, slow down!" He just about managed to catch Sherlock – he had launched himself towards the chair, misjudging the distance.

"Right," John declared, settling Sherlock into the chair and wrapping him in a blanket.

"John, I hate this," Sherlock drawled, plucking at the hospital gown. "Where's my coat?"

"Not here. The blanket will do for now."

"Yes, but what happened to my coat?" He demanded indignantly.

"It's got bullet holes in it, remember? You'll get proper pyjamas and your dressing gown as soon as we're home." John looked at Mary questioningly.

She nodded. "Mycroft has promised to send someone with everything we'll be needing – he said something about an infusion system and antibiotics and that you should tell his PA what else is necessary. A bag with clothes and toiletries is also on the way."

"Great," John gave a sigh of relief.

"I don't need Mycroft's stuff," Sherlock growled.

"Yes you do," John said.

"I have all I need at Baker Street."

"But you're not going to Baker Street."

"Why not?" Sherlock twisted around, instantly flinching in pain.

"Because," John declared, "you don't even have bed clothes there. We took them to the hospital, remember? So that you'd feel at least a little bit at home."

Sherlock watched silently while John finished tucking him in. Eventually, he said in a low voice, "Thank you, John."

And John knew he was not talking about the blanket. "You're welcome. Always." John straightened and looked down at him. "Ready?"

Sherlock squinted up, frowning. "I would not know what there is to be ready for, sitting is a rather passive occupation."

"Yeah, good to know you're still the same," John declared. "I meant whether you're all right."

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock mumbled, pouting. "Why would I not be?"

"No reason," John sighed, "no reason at all. Let's go." He winked at Mary, who had silently taken out her phone, and slipping behind them, was filming their departure with a mischievous smile. "For blackmail," she whispered as John rolled his eyes at her.

Sherlock just assumed a regal look while John pushed him along the corridor, struggling against grinding wheels and squeaking breaks.


	51. Deep Blue

**Nightmare ahead. Second part is harmless.**

* * *

**Deep Blue**

Trapped in the prison of his mind: a nightmare.

Sherlock knew that he was no longer in a coma; he was dreaming, was even aware of it, yet it didn't make it less terrifying.

He was back in the cave, in utter darkness. If he stretched out his hands, he touched rough stone, walling him in, forcing him to crouch. The rock was cold and wet; icy drops fell on his back, running down his skin, chilling him to the bone, and creating a sensation of being cut with a knife.

Sometimes, blood dripped from his eye, but unlike the water, it felt hot and singed his skin. If he put a finger to his eye where the ice pick had left an entry wound, the tissue felt pulpy and scrunchy, small bits of bone grinding against each other. There was a chest injury as well, but with a sort of canal in the centre into which he could insert his finger, making a squelching sound accompanied by searing pain. The rest of his body was completely numb, and he couldn't even tell where it began or ended.

Inching forward, he felt the edges of the hole in the ground – it was filled with water and just wide enough for him to fit through. Underneath, and all around him, was the ocean. Tons and tons of water, miles to the surface, a black infinity full of monsters, eyeless creatures with razor-sharp fangs and poisonous stings, waiting for him to brave the abyss, to tear him to pieces, strip away his skin, gnaw the flesh from his bones, crack them to pieces and suck out the marrow, obliterating him.

Some of their bodies emanated a faint glow, the only source of light in the darkness of the ocean – a cold, treacherous light, promising death, not salvation. The monsters slid through the water hungrily, curling around each other, snapping and biting, rippling the oily surface. Sometimes, a ghost-like face would stare up at him, mouth agape, rows of sharp teeth displayed, waiting to devour him.

If he wanted to go home, he had to brave the abyss. There was no other way – he could not stay in the cave for ever, it was growing colder, the rock was pressing down on him, and breathing was a painful ordeal. His chest seemed to be in a vice, and soon, there would be no air left.

But diving into the water meant death.

Death was better than being trapped in the cave. He'd grit his teeth and close his eyes and let them feast on his flesh, their fangs boring into his muscles and their flabby bellies pressing against his skin. He'd do it – if it weren't for the demon lurking out there.

The monsters were mindless beasts, driven by hunger, but there was one among them who was clever, always hovering in the distance, ever-vigilant; a malicious creature with a sharp mind and a plump body, solely waiting to feast on his brain. That was how it thrived: it fed on the intelligence of others, devouring minds. It's body was almost translucent – the stomach crawling with worms, and its blind eyes glaring at him full of hatred.

If he entered the water, it would attack instantly, and while the others savaged his body, the demon would rip off his face and eat away his eyes to sink its teeth into his brain and gorge on his mind. It would incorporate him, enslaving him forever and growing stronger until its malice spilled out into the entire ocean.

He was trapped.

Until the light appeared. A tiny spark, glowing not unlike a firefly, but golden. Suddenly, it was hovering in his cave, giving off warmth and humming into his ear, telling him to follow, to brave the abyss.

And he did. He slid into the water, the spark held tightly in his hand – and its light drove away the monsters and kept the malicious demon at bay. He swam towards the surface, with mighty strokes, leaving behind the horrors of the deep sea.

Slowly, black turned to deep blue, light glittering above, until he broke through the surface, seeing the sun and the shore. The spark still in his fist, he swam towards the land and walked out of the water, straight into the ruins of his Mind Palace.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock's eyes flew open. Sweat was streaming down his face, he was panting heavily and his chest ached with a stabbing pain.

There was a face right above him, vaguely familiar – Mary.

"It's alright," she said calmly.

"Where's John?" he immediately asked, looking around, confused.

"Asleep," she replied and sat down next to him. "Here," she held a glass of water to his lips. He tried to grab it, but his hands were shaking too much. "Just drink," she said, holding it patiently, and he complied, glad to quench the raging thirst. Once finished, she handed him a flannel to wipe the sweat from his face, and it filled him with a ridiculous sense of pride that he could do this without help.

Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings.

The Kensington home, he realised: living room, cream-coloured sofa and chairs, plenty of bookshelves, paintings and photographs on the walls, large French windows leading into a garden, now in darkness. Flowers on the table, plants in every corner, a fireplace with knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, a few antique pieces among them; the kitchen was right opposite, bright colours and modern equipment, but also old copper baking pans and traditional pottery.

He was lying on a sofa bed, propped up and almost walled in by pillows and folded duvets; the dreadful hospital gown had been replaced by a silk pyjama – undoubtedly courtesy of Mycroft – and he was tucked into a duvet, covered by a pale blue cashmere blanket. A reading lamp cast a warm glow over the room; basic medical equipment was lined up alongside the bed – an infusion system, the inevitable heart monitor, and even a portable ventilator, stowed away in the corner. Someone was clearly worried.

He noticed the nasal cannula only now and pulled it off his face.

"John is upstairs, in our bedroom," Mary explained.

"Clearly," Sherlock rasped. He sat up slightly, wincing.

"He was pretty knackered," she continued, "and I was worried about him, so I convinced him to lie down a bit after you had fallen asleep."

Sherlock looked around. His lips curled into a wry smile when his eyes fell on a device next to him. "And he only did so after setting up a baby monitor, plus leaving you to watch over me. Undoubtedly, he kept the bedroom door open, but you have closed it now, and the baby monitor is unplugged."

Mary picked at her dressing gown, looking a bit guilty. "This whole thing has taken its toll on him as well. I hope you don't mind."

"I never said that I disapprove."

Mary got up. "I had to promise him that I would take your temperature regularly," she explained and fetched a thermometer. "He's terrified that you might get another infection."

"I'm fine."

"Sure." She held out the thermometer.

Sherlock frowned at it, but eventually took it and put it under his tongue. It read normal.

"That must have been the hell of a nightmare," Mary remarked quietly when he handed back the thermometer.

"Hm." Sherlock just shrugged.

"You were … mumbling something about a cave and an abyss."

He looked annoyed. "It was less a nightmare and more of a flashback to the coma."

Mary gave him a long look. "John told me, when you woke up from the coma, you said you were trapped, and you made your way up here, following his voice."

"And so I did." He tried to sit up, but failed miserably: he was too weak, his muscles were trembing uselessly, and the slightest exertion made him break out in a sweat. It seemed, the final hunt for Moriarty had drained him completely.

"I can help you, you know," Mary offered cautiously, watching him with raised brows.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh, infuriated by his weakness. "Then by all means do so."

Mary chuckled, but bent down and raised him by the shoulders; Sherlock realised that the blue cashmere blanket had to be hers – it carried the same faint sandalwood fragrance he detected on her. To his surprise, he didn't mind it.

Mary stuffed two pillows behind his back and shoved another one under his knees. Sherlock leaned back, stifling a groan – every single bone and joint ached from being bedridden, and any change in position brought both pain and relief.

"Do you think you can manage some food?" Mary asked quietly.

He thought about it. He needed to eat eventually, but he wasn't sure whether anything he ingested stayed where it belonged, and he would not endure the humiliation of being cleaned up like a baby.

Mary tapped a wide plastic bowl with her foot, half-hidden under the bed. "Shouldn't be too difficult to aim, in case, I mean."

He sighed. "Some porridge, maybe."

Mary gave a wry smile. "I thought chicken soup is the typical comfort food."

Sherlock thought of oily liquid and bits of pale meat sloshing around in a bowl, and went even paler.

"Porridge, then," Mary grinned. "Slightly sweet, with a bit of cream in it? Okay." She got up, walked over to the kitchen and prepared the porridge with the efficiency of long habit.

Sherlock watched her from narrowed eyes, fatigue tugging at him, but he refused to give in. When she returned, she spread a napkin across his chest and placed a breakfast tray with a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him.

He eyed it carefully, one eyebrow raised. "Peter Rabbit," he stated and tipped his finger against the dish.

"Wedgwood," Mary replied. "Sorry. Part of my christening set. I only have either small bowls or large ones. Well, I can get you a plate if it's too -"

"It's fine." Sherlock sighed. "I had the same nursery set."

She smiled. "Fond memories?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft taught me to read the sentence on the rim. _Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away_ and so on. Said this was the reason why my great aunt chose this set, and not Jemima Puddleduck." He tried the porridge – it was surprisingly good.

"Did you run away?" Mary smirked.

Sherlock snorted. "Everyone ran away when my aunt came. Even her horse. Buttercup. Jumped the fence at the sight of her car. No one blamed him."

Mary giggled; they remained silent until he had finished eating. Mary cleared away the tablet and the bowl, then sat down next to him with a book, trying to watch him unobtrusively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop trying to be furtive. It doesn't work. And I'm not nauseous anyway."

"Sorry," Mary smirked. "I'll watch you openly, then." She put the book away.

"Do as you please." Sherlock touched the bowl under the bed, making sure he would be able to reach it quickly. "I don't think I'll need it," he muttered, "would have happened after the first two spoonfuls." That, at least, he thought, was an improvement. He looked up at her frowning. "Are you planning on sitting here all night, staring at me?"

"Yes." She grinned.

"I can't sleep if you do that."

"Why?"

He frowned. The truth was: her gaze was surprisingly intense, if not to say unsettling. She was clearly trying to read him, and whereas he didn't care at all about people staring at him, it unnerved him to be scrutinised by someone who had read him quite successfully before.

"It's distracting," he said instead. "I cannot simply shut out information flooding in." Which was true, in fact.

Mary pouted. "John said you used to lie on the sofa like a sloth for hours, no matter what happened around you – he even said Mrs Hudson once got scared out of her mind, thinking you were dead, when she was hoovering the carpet, accidentally running into you, and you not moving at all. You had tuned her out completely."

Sherlock gave her a withering look. "Familiar surroundings," he corrected her. "People I know. No new or important information."

"You mean you felt safe."

The withering look turned into a black scowl. "Well," Sherlock sighed, putting on a fake smile. "If you refuse to go away, you shall have to endure me watching you just the same."

"Oh." Mary baulked a little at that. "I can't imagine I'm much of a mystery to you. Ordinary people, you know. Boring."

"Not at all," Sherlock snapped. "There is one thing that keeps puzzling me," he huffed, sitting up.

Mary blinked, genuinely surprised. "And what's that?"

Wincing from pain, Sherlock pressed a hand against the wound, but drew a deep breath anyway. "A conundrum. From what Mycroft told me, you were originally hesitant to enter into a relationship with John – no, your outright refused him." Sherlock stared her down, his eyes suddenly glittering with interest. "But then you changed your mind. And once you started dating him, you pursued the idea of marriage with single-minded determination – hence the sudden wedding."

"So," Mary began, hesitating slightly. "What do you make of it?"

Sherlock looked around, then tilted his head to the side. "People usually marry that quickly for a reason. Money, pregnancy, social advancement, silly infatuation." He shrugged dismissively, but the effect was somewhat ruined by another wince of pain. "John was not the one pressing for marriage, in fact, it was the other way round: you married him."

"True," she softly said, pulling the dressing gown closer around herself.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then launched into his deductions. "This is your home – a fully renovated house in Kensington, not grand but still worth a fortune, probably inherited from your parents, both killed in a car crash, according to Mycroft – so possibly the house came with the moderate amount of their lives' savings, plus you have a decent income as a university academic, no overly expensive hobbies, and you clearly prefer quality over designer brands, so let's assume you are financially independent and not prone to living beyond your means. You have plenty of photographs on the walls, showing your parents and you as a happy family; you even have pictures of your childhood pets on the mantlepiece, plus a photograph of a rather fat horse – but not a single picture indicating any other relatives. Therefore, if anything happens to you, John as your husband will inherit everything. So, there was no financial incentive for you to marry John. More so, this explains John's initial reluctance to marry you, old-fashioned as he is in his belief that he, too, should contribute financially to a partnership. So, money doesn't come into it."

Mary straightened imperceptibly under his scrutiny.

Sherlock dissected her with his eyes. "Social advancement? No, you're an academic. Pregnancy? Neither, both of you would have been careful, John in particular, and even if it were a planned child, unlikely as it is that early into a relationship, there was no hurry to marry – no nagging parents, no traditions or conventions to adhere to. Leaves infatuation." He pursed his lips.

Mary exhaled slowly. "Silly infatuation, you said."

"That depends on the point of view," Sherlock corrected. "In any case," he drawled, his gaze travelling all over her, "your feelings for John are genuine, you obviously do love him, there is no ulterior motive – so he himself is the prize. But why the reluctance at first? You are an exceptionally perceptive person with an above-average intellect – you must have read his character in an instant, realising that in terms of personality he is a big catch. So why the reluctance? Not for selfish reasons, then … there is something …" he frowned, hands coming up to meet in his trademark gesture of prayer, pain forgotten. "There's something you're afraid he wants and you can't give." His eyes widened, and he whispered, "How did you meet him, Mary? You said to me _I know a walking suicide when I see it. Takes one to know one. _So, you are familiar with emotional extremes of that kind – did you meet him at his therapist's?"

"Yes." Mary did not avoid his relentless gaze.

"So, depression, I reckon, or at least grief over something – not your parents, long dead by then – could have been the loss of another partner, yet nothing here indicates the presence of another man in your life – trauma from being a crime victim is another option, but this does not explain your reluctance to date John – more so, most of Ella's patients are either veterans with PTSD or they're referred on to her by a university friend working in palliative care. Illness it is, then."

He drew a shaky breath and continued without giving her the chance to either confirm or contradict. "You're not ill, though, regardless of the fact that quite a few illnesses cannot be detected from the outside. However, if you were ill, Mycroft would at least have alluded to it, which he did not. This does not exclude the possibility that you may have been ill, since a healthy lifestyle is apparently of importance to you as one look into the kitchen suggests – hanging vegetable rack, organic fruit by the look of it, electric juicer, wholemeal bread, no alcohol in sight, and the state of the stove is proof that you prepare your own meals, plus there are running shoes next to the entrance door as well as a complete set of riding gear – doing sports, then." He blinked. "You're healthy by all accounts, yet this does not exclude that you may think you are defective in some way. Probably … ah." His eyes widened. "Only one likely solution, then."

Mary sat stiffly, her face a pale mask.

Sherlock's lips were slightly parted and he was panting from exertion, but all weakness was gone for the moment, and even the pain was shut out. A slow smile spread across his face. "That's it, then. You can't have children." He narrowed his eyes. "Probably due to some aggressive treatment such as chemotherapy or surgery. My bet is on the latter. Am I right?" He virtually glowed from inside, vibrating with excitement.

Mary swallowed, all colour drained from her face. "John said you do that."

"Do what?" he started back, looking nonplussed. Slowly, his beaming expression turned into a self-conscious frown. "Not good?"

She huffed out a laugh. "Bloody brilliant. It just feels rather harsh to be taken apart like that." She looked away, plucking at the sleeve of her gown.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, sounding deflated. "Did I get anything wrong?"

"No, you're absolutely right," Mary sighed, giving him a sad look. "I've had both my ovaries removed. Cancer, stage I. Pure luck they discovered it that early. Chemotherapy wasn't necessary."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "But you still think the cancer might reappear."

"I don't _think_ Sherlock – I'm afraid."

He blinked. "Statistically-"

"I know," she cut him off, looking squarely into his eyes. "The statistics are in may favour. Doesn't help, though. Sentiment, you see. Irrational."

He considered this for a moment. "You are an academic, you understand the mathematics behind the statistics, yet you are still afraid. Why?"

She chuckled and bit her lips. "You don't understand that at all, do you?"

"No," he admitted.

She scrutinised him, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Lucky you."

He frowned but eventually smiled as well. "Hm. I guess I am."

Mary raised her brows, still smiling, though a bit wryly now. "I was rather depressed after the diagnosis and didn't know how to handle the fear, so my doctor recommended Ella as a therapist."

Sherlock pouted. "Was she any good?"

"No." Mary snorted. "She means well, but she got it wrong."

"Hm." Sherlock just smirked. "But you met John."

"Exactly."

His face lit up again, sparked by keen interest. "And you were reluctant to date him for three reasons: you didn't know whether you would overcome the depression, you were afraid the cancer might reappear, and you assumed John would want a family. But he fell in love with you and convinced you that he wanted to be with you come hell or high water – so consequently, you soon pressed for marriage to ensure your relationship would be both financially and legally secure. Your fear of the future is also one reason why you were glad instead of jealous when I returned – so John would not be lonely in case anything happened to you. "

Mary raised her brows. "Bloody hell, you are good."

Sherlock grinned.

She cleared her throat. "Thanks for not assuming I wanted him committed to me in case I fell ill."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I do that? You clearly never-"

"Sherlock," Mary sniggered, "that was a joke."

"Oh."

Mary abruptly straightened her back, smiling. "You got one thing wrong, though."

"What?" Sherlock scowled.

"I don't ride anymore. The riding gear is just there to be picked up by a colleague who wants to give it a try and doesn't know yet whether this is the right hobby for her."

"Oh." Sherlock frowned at the horse photograph, as if it were to blame. "The horse does look rather old. It is not dead, though?"

"Nope," Mary quipped, "just old, fat, and lazy. But lovely. A show hunter, I inherited him from my grandmother. The two won quite a few medals in their time, though he's always been a gobbler who hated legwork." She grinned. "His name's _Mycroft_, by the way," she smiled cheekily, "and that's not my fault."

Sherlock burst out laughing, instantly wincing from the pain. When they both stopped giggling, he raised his voice and said: "John, you can come down now. There's no point in hiding on the stairs."

An annoyed groan was the answer.

Mary turned around in surprise and watched her husband shuffling down the stairs. "Should have known you'd hear me," John grumbled at Sherlock.

"Then why did you bother to hide?"

"Thought the drugs in your system might have slowed you a bit. That was very unkind, by the way."

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"Your deductions."

"Truth is neither kind nor unkind."

"Right. But the way you present it is."

Sherlock just glared at him.

John sat down next to Mary, tying the belt of his dressing gown. She patted him on the knee and said, "You look rotten. But I guess sleeping is off the agenda now?"

"I want to have a word with him," John confirmed.

Mary smirked. "Good luck." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, winked at Sherlock, and left, retreating to their bedroom.

"A word with me," Sherlock repeated, sounding bemused, with just the slightest trace of contempt.

"Yes, a word with you. First of all, I'm not sure you understood anything a few hours ago, since you were high as a kite and not on planet Earth."

"That was neither my fault nor did the drugs inhibit my intellect."

John just rolled his eyes. "I just want to make sure you know the plan for tomorrow so that I don't have to fight you every step of the way."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, curious.

John looked at him squarely. "You can't stay here, you know?"

"Why?" Sherlock objected.

"You still need medical care."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." John rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I can't take care of you here, you need regular check-ups, inhalation therapy, physical therapy, antibiotics – argh," he broke off, "why am I even trying to explain it, you won't listen anyway!"

Sherlock just looked back innocently.

"Okay." John took a deep breath. "Frankly, the idea of having a bedridden and bored-out-of-his-mind Sherlock in the middle of our living room scares me to death."

Sherlock smirked. "I admit my foreseeable boredom might be a cause for some concern. I do have a flat, though, if I may remind you."

"Yes." John nodded. "221B is currently being refurbished, thanks to your brother, so that you can move in again and do all the experiments you like. But it's not ready. You're not ready."

Sherlock scrutinised him like a big cat about to pounce.

"Which is," John continued, unfazed, "why we will all be picked up tomorrow by your brother. And we will all go to his country house, where he will undoubtedly provide all the necessary resources to ensure the best possible care for you, including a helicopter to take you to the next hospital in less than an hour in case you develop complications. You'll have every treatment available a hospital could possibly offer, in the comforts of a country house, plus fresh air, fine food, and long walks on quiet country lanes."

"You want me to stay with my brother?" Sherlock blurted.

John drew back. "Is that all you got out of what I said?" He groaned, then put his head in his hands, pressing the thumbs into his eyes. "Sherlock, it's the best solution, you can recover, I can watch over you, and Mary can have a few days off."

"You're staying with me, then."

John looked up, confused. "Of course I'm staying with you. What else would I do?" He frowned. "I said we'll _all_ go to-"

"John." Sherlock looked him straight in the eye.

John stared back, blinking, then it hit him. "Argh! You're having me on … haha, very funny." He exhaled a deep sigh. "So it's all right that we stay at your brother's?"

Sherlock settled back into the pillows, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. "I don't care where we stay."

"Right. OK." John nodded, and rose to fetch a blanket for himself.

"… as long as you're there," he heard Sherlock add. Surprised, he turned around, but Sherlock gave the perfect image of a man fast asleep.

~ 0 ~

* * *

**Still two chapters to come. The action is over, but I didn't want to leave John and Sherlock just like that – I simply had too much fun writing them, and anyway, I was yearning for a bit of domestic bliss. Sort of. **


	52. Treasure Room

**Finally, the last two chapters.**

* * *

**Treasure Room**

John's jaw dropped: Ashbury House was not a house at all. It was not even large; it was huge.

As it turned out, Mycroft Holmes' country house was a late 17th century mansion with two wings, surrounded by ancient trees, vast gardens, and silvery ponds. The building had a hipped roof with dormer windows, complete with a central triangular pediment sporting a coat of arms.

Gleaming in the morning light, the facade was a masterpiece of classical architecture, possibly designed by Christopher Wren himself: white cornices, prominent string courses, brick lintels and pediments above sash windows, and panelled double doors with brightly coloured fanlights under a carved hood. A gravel path was leading up to a wide stairway flanked by balustrades with ornamental vases and urns planted with ivy and wine.

John looked at Mary; Mary raised her brows.

"I guess I should have known," John muttered. He tried to count the chimneys on the roof, but failed to finish before the car pulled up at the entrance.

Servants were waiting for them, taking care of the luggage, and a butler introduced himself as 'James, if you please, Sir', but they were greeted by Mycroft himself. "John, Mary, what a pleasure to see you. Sherlock is already settled in."

"Oh, good," John said and followed him into the hall. Sherlock had been picked up earlier by an ambulance, and John was still surprised that he hadn't uttered a word of complaint, only sighing, "I suppose it is unavoidable."

"Mary," Mycroft turned to her with a radiant smile, usually reserved for heads of state or royalty. "May I refer you on to Stetson," he nodded at a middle-aged man in jodhpurs. "He's responsible for the stables - I thought you might want to start riding again while you're here."

"Oh, that would be lovely," Mary smiled, "but I'm afraid I didn't bring any gear."

"That will be no problem," Mycroft assured her smoothly. "Stetson will also show you our little surprise for Sherlock, it arrived only yesterday."

John perked up. "That's the uh-"

"Yes, John," Mycroft cut him off. "Your wife was of great help in the matter, and we have managed to keep Sherlock in the dark so far. Not an easy feat."

"Tell me about it," John chuckled.

"I'm off, see you later," Mary said to John. "Mycroft," she nodded at him, then virtually skipped through the hall, following Stetson.

"Nice house," John remarked, casually eyeing the tiled floor, the wainscoting, and the tapestries on the wall. "Pretty old, I guess?"

"Yes, it was built in the 1690s," Mycroft replied, "but the interior is mostly Victorian. In fact, quite a mixture of styles, I'm afraid – every owner added a bit and modernised according to their liking."

Mycroft had done his own modernising, it seemed: a lift was hidden behind the stairs, and on their way towards the house, John had noted a number of security cameras. Undoubtedly, the house itself was nothing less than a fortress.

On their way through the hall, they passed the butler talking to a burly man who looked like a former boxing champion. "Ah," Mycroft remarked, "that will be Sherlock's physiotherapist."

"Oh," John's brows shot up. "Looks like he could handle an ox."

"Let's hope so," Mycroft added ominously. Just when they reached the stairs, a door slammed shut on the floor above, followed by a staccato of high-heeled pumps on carpet. Next, a pretty woman in her mid-twenties thundered down the stairs, her face tear-streaked and bright red. Wordlessly, she stormed past them, through the hall, and straight out of the house.

Mycroft arched one brow. "That would have been the nurse," he explained. Turning to the butler, he added with a wry smile, "We'll settle for the young lady from Poland, then."

"Very well, Sir," the butler confirmed.

Mycroft turned back to John, who looked nonplussed. "The Polish nurse has excellent credentials, and, thankfully, doesn't speak a word of English."

"Uh," John said.

Mycroft smiled. "Meaning, she won't understand Sherlock's insults."

"Okay," John said lamely. "So, Sherlock doesn't speak Polish?"

Mycroft froze. "I hope not."

John just chuckled. He was quickly serious again. "Mycroft, what about this PTSD specialist?"

"Professor Sheffield? He'll arrive any moment now," Mycroft announced, sounding distracted.

"And you, um," John frowned, "you have broached the subject with him? Sherlock, I mean?"

"No." Mycroft's entire face seemed to actually slide down a fraction.

"And no idea how to go about it," John realised.

"I'm afraid so," Mycroft conceded, giving him a long look.

"Oh, God," John groaned, suddenly understanding. "You want me to talk him into therapy."

"If it's not too much trouble," Mycroft smiled, but he looked rather pained.

"I'll do my best," John promised, "but you know, he's Sherlock." John shrugged helplessly.

"Yes. I know," Mycroft sighed. Indicating John to follow, he ascended the stairs. "You and Mary have a suite on the same floor as Sherlock," he added. "I'll show you to his room."

"Oh, thanks," John replied. "Let me just pick up-"

Before he could finish, the butler had caught up with them and handed him a case. "That's great, thanks," John muttered and wondered whether Mycroft's employees had to pass a test in precognition before he hired them.

Mycroft led him through a corridor hung with portraits of the highest nobility from three centuries – going by the length of the line and the size of the noses. Some of them wore tartan patterns and belted plaids, John noticed. Mycroft waved at a particularly snobbish looking aristocrat in full Highland dress. "Our family has a Scottish line," he explained with a pained smile. John raised his brows. He couldn't think of a reason why Mycroft's Scottish ancestors should give him a headache, but maybe they were responsible for some salacious scandals.

They had stopped in front of a panelled door and Mycroft knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.

The case in hand, John followed. He stopped after only two steps, gaping: the room could easily have served as master bedroom in some period piece - the floor was covered in dark red carpets, matched by the upholstery of the chairs, and a huge bowl-shaped Tiffany light was hung from the stuccoed ceiling. A large wardrobe stood in one corner, and an elaborately carved bureau was placed next to the window. But what dominated the room was the huge four-poster bed, complete with heavy curtains, and mountains of pillows and cushions. An infusion stand was visible, half-hidden by the curtains, and the antique bedside table was littered with medication packages.

Overwhelmed, John stood in awe, and only now noticed that the bed was empty. Belated, he registered the chaise longue in front of the windows looking out over the courtyard. Sherlock was reclining on it, clad in his red dressing gown, laptop on his knees, and murder written on his face.

"That nurse," he spat at Mycroft, "was easily the most imbecilic creature ever to enter this house."

"Well, thank God then that you have sent her running," Mycroft replied suavely. He turned to John. "John, I leave you to it. I hope you can lift my brother's spirits, he seems to find fault with everything today." Without a further glance at his brother, Mycroft left.

John stood in the middle of the room and felt out of place like a clay pot among bone china.

"John," Sherlock pointed to a cushioned chair – probably genuine Bidermeier. "Sit down. No need to be impressed by this old clutter."

John blinked. "Right." Carefully, he lowered himself into the antique piece of furniture and noticed to his surprise that it was rather comfortable. "Um," suddenly uncertain, he tapped his fingers on the case. "I brought your violin. I mean, it'll be a while until you can play it, but I thought …" It had seemed a brilliant idea yesterday, but now he was not so sure anymore.

Sherlock, however, pushed the laptop aside and eagerly reached out, his eyes lighting up as if it were Christmas. "Thank you, John," he said, opening the case. John watched in amazement as Sherlock took out the instrument and ran his fingers over it, caressing the wood, and eliciting a faint sound from the neglected strings. He inspected it thoroughly, then put it gently back into its case and stowed it away, next to the chaise longue. "Thank you so much."

John felt a strange warmth spreading through his chest. "You, um," he added, "I have your phone as well." He held out the phone with the diary.

Sherlock looked at it for a second, then dismissed it. "I have a new one. Courtesy of Mycroft. I don't need it."

"OK." John smiled. He knew what Sherlock meant: keep it. The diary is for you. "I just thought you might want to … you know, read the diary."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "No need. You've already read it to me."

John blinked in surprise. "You mean, you heard it all? You have it all in your mind now?"

"Of course."

"So, um, did it help?" He fiddled nervously with the phone.

"Immensely," Sherlock confirmed. "I can now make sense of my memories and fill in the gaps." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "My Mind Palace will never be the same, John, what is destroyed cannot be made whole. But it is no longer in chaos, and I discovered that, along with the factual knowledge, more memories appear. And of course," he added lightly, "I can always build a new one." He pulled the laptop back onto his knees and remarked casually, "Thankfully, my memories concerning you are entirely undamaged. In case you're interested."

"I am," John was quick to say. "That's great. Really great," he smiled happily.

"Well, obviously they were never in any real danger," Sherlock added dismissively, "all my essential memories are stored in the treasure room, which is protected by a firewall." He frowned. "Though I may have forgotten Mycroft's lessons on etiquette and proper social behaviour. Naturally, they were the first to go." He shrugged, and snapped the laptop open.

John sat smiling, only gradually realising what Sherlock had said – and then grinned wider than a Cheshire cat, blushing all the way up to his ears.

A minute later, still beaming with pride, he asked, "So, during the coma, you noticed most things going on around you?"

"I noticed everything," Sherlock declared. "What else was there to do?"

"What else – everything?" John echoed, baffled.

"Yes, John, everything you said, did, and felt. Probably." Sherlock cleared his throat then looked up from the computer, deliberately allowing John to read his face. It was all there, John thought amazed, the gratitude, the caring, the love.

John smiled and blushed again, a sunny pride filling him, and he struggled to not get all jittery and soppy. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and sudden elation made his heart flutter with delight - until he remembered the task Mycroft had landed him with: talking Sherlock into therapy.

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"Nothing," John said hastily. "I was just completely, utterly and thoroughly happy for a second, and then remembered-" he flinched.

"Remembered what?" Sherlock asked sharply.

John gave a desperate sigh. "That I'm supposed to pursuade you to speak to a therapist. About the PTSD, I mean."

"You have done that herewith. Move on," Sherlock declared.

"No, Sherlock," John shook his head. "It's not that simple-"

"Ah," Sherlock interrupted, and pointed out the window. "Here we are."

"What?" John stood up and looked down into the courtyard.

"The therapist," Sherlock smirked. "That buffoon down there, exiting my brother's car, is the renowned Professor Sheffield, specialising in PTSD. He's an idiot."

"Oh," John sighed and realised that all his efforts were wasted. Sherlock would never open up to the pompously dressed man, not in this lifetime.

"Don't worry," Sherlock quipped, "he didn't come alone. Here's his assistant."

John watched a woman in a plain grey suit get out of the car; she was completely unremarkable, mid-thirties, with mousy brown hair.

"So, if Professor Sheffield is an idiot," John began carefully, "why did Mycroft hire him?"

"Mycroft relies on me insulting him so thoroughly that he leaves after one session, entrusting his assistant with the therapy." Sherlock sneered.

"OK," John agreed, "I can see you doing that. So …?"

"His assistant, John. Dr Hale."

"She's not an idiot?"

"Not entirely," Sherlock replied. "We might actually get somewhere."

"So, you are … um, willing to …?"

"Do something about the PTSD? Of course. If it is at all possible. You know that there is no simple form of treatment, and I am certainly not going to waste time on tedious talking sessions. And no medication, obviously. Never worked for me. Naturally, the best therapy will be going back to solving cases as soon as possible." Sherlock returned to his laptop.

"Good. Good," John muttered and sat down again, not quite believing his luck yet and for the time being ignoring the fact that Sherlock had basically dismissed all conventional treatments in one go. One step at a time. "What are you working on? Thought you might be tired after last night."

"I'm bored," Sherlock declared. "I'm working on the data I stole from the Russian. I have cracked nearly all codes, except for one. Which is – ah!" His eyes widened and he threw up his hands in triumph – wincing in pain instantly. "Well." He folded his hands over his stomach, an extraordinarily pleased smile on his face. "I have cracked them _all _now."

"Oh," John just said. "Nice. That's good, I guess."

"That's _excellent_ John," Sherlock corrected. "Mycroft will be over the moon with all those secrets unlocked. Now he can bully, bargain, and blackmail to his heart's content." He snapped the laptop shut and put it aside. "You should go for a walk, the estate is truly beautiful – if one cares for the charms of the country, that is," he added, settling into the cushions.

"Okay," John said, a bit puzzled, "if you don't mind being on your own …"

"Not at all," Sherlock declared, closing his eyes. "I shall get a few hours of sleep."

John's face was instantly marred by deep concern. "Is something wrong?" His hand shot out to touch Sherlock's forehead, taking his temperature.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock drawled without opening his eyes, but also without objecting to John's touch. "I just intend to be as well rested and alert as possible tonight."

"OK. Why is that?" John asked suspiciously.

"Because, John, I have asked my brother to invite Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly for tonight to celebrate my return – or rather, my second resurrection, as he termed it. And I shall enjoy every second of it, because I will force him to fulfil his promise."

"What promise?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock tapped on the laptop. "The data. He said if I manage to unlock Michail's secrets, he would dance on the table." With his eyes still closed, he smiled dreamily.

"I remember, you wrote that in your diary," John agreed. "But – you mean, _literally_? Dance on the table? Mycroft?"

"Of course I mean literally."

John sat back, contemplating the idea of Mycroft dancing on the table. He could not conjure up an image; not for the love of God. In his mind, Mycroft was always stiff, aloof, and steadfastly dignified. "He won't do it," he decided.

"He must," Sherlock simply said, a smug smile on his face.

He looked a lot younger and almost relaxed in the morning light, John thought, noting with infinite relief that Sherlock was no longer sickly pale and tense with pain. He was still a long way from recovered, but being out of hospital had worked wonders, apparently.

"You're actually going to sleep?" John asked disbelievingly.

"Yes." Sherlock breathed a sigh, then half-opened his eyes and regarded him from under heavy lids. "John, stop worrying. Everything will be all right."

John smiled faintly. "Okay. If you say so …" he trailed off, then got up and turned to go. He stopped, however, and went over to the bed instead, fetching a blanket. Carefully, he draped it over Sherlock. "Don't want you to catch cold," he muttered, feeling a little bit embarrassed.

Sherlock just smiled.

* * *

The gardens surrounding Ashbury House were a national treasure: some were formal, with rectangular box hedges, others full of rampant flower beds and vine sprawling over the walls; ancient trees mixed with bushes in all shapes, the colour of their leaves varying from bright green to dark purple. A small pond was surrounded by exotic grasses, and the rose garden was still a riot of colours, even this late in the year.

John marvelled at the beauty and walked around the grounds far longer than intended. Eventually, he found the stables; even they were magnificent: the two-storey building, sporting the same architectural style as the house, was built around a courtyard, mimicking the grand mansion.

Mary was there, just sliding off a placid looking white horse, which was led away by Stetson.

She was glowing with happiness, her cheeks red from exertion. "John," she smiled and hugged him, and John laughed, revelling in her joy. "You smell of horse," he teased her.

She hugged him fiercely in response. "There, that's what you get," she chided.

"If I get that for every insult, I might become rather impolite," John chuckled.

She poked him in the side. "How's Sherlock?"

"Doing surprisingly well. You were right, he's in much better hands here than in a hospital. Actually," John frowned, looking at his watch, "I think I should check on him. He managed to scare away the nurse, I want to make sure he takes his medication. Maybe I can even persuade him to eat something."

"Good idea," Mary fell into step beside him. "And good luck. Though the porridge was a success yesterday." She patted him on the arm. "But I want to show you something first."

John raised his brows. "The surprise?"

"The surprise."

They left the courtyard and walked to the back of the stables where the kennels were. A safe distance from the hunting dogs was a fenced off green patch with a dog house. Its inhabitant perked up immediately at the sight of Mary, tail wagging.

John's face fell. "Uhm …"

Mary grinned. "John, this is Pompey."

"What?" John burst out. "_Pompey_? Who gave him that name?"

"Mycroft."

"Of course," John muttered. "Who else. Why?"

Mary giggled. "Actually, it's just a slight change of his original name – I mean, the dog's used to its name, so we couldn't change it completely. He was called _Rompy._ Mycroft thought it wasn't dignified enough."

John groaned. "So he changed a perfectly adorable dog name to that of an ambitious Roman general who lost his head battling Julius Caesar? Obvious."

"You don't seem very enthusiastic about our choice," Mary remarked, barely holding back her laughter.

John cleared his throat. "The name is bad enough, but …"

Mary held up a hand. "John, before you insult the dog, I want you to know that I got him from a colleague's uncle who breeds the finest Scottish Terriers in Britain. He's a dog expert whose Scotties regularly win international prizes. He raised and trained Pompey, and swears to his good character and intelligence. Pompey's still very young and exuberant, but he's smart, vigilant, and very affectionate; he tackles intruders fearlessly and will defend his charge without thinking twice. Really, he's the perfect dog for Sherlock."

"Uh-huh," John nodded, staring at the furry creature. "Wait a moment," he blurted, narrowing his eyes. "What's that? That blue blanket he's sitting on?" He made a step forward. "That's – Mary!" he exclaimed. "For God's sake, that's Sherlock's scarf!"

"Well, obviously we had to familiarize him with his future owner's scent. He now firmly associates everything that is good, warm, and comfortable with Sherlock. To him, that scent is as close to God as it gets. He just hasn't met the object of his worship yet." Mary smiled radiantly at Pompey, who wagged his tail even harder, but did not get up to greet them.

"He seems very fond of you," John remarked. "Why is he not coming closer? I mean, he looks rather … jolly."

"Oh, he's guarding the scarf," Mary explained. "Drags it everywhere. Uh, by the way, don't ever try to take it from him, he's a bit possessive about it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," John muttered. "I wonder what Sherlock will say."

"It'll take some persuading," Mary admitted, "but I'm confident Pompey will win him over."

"I wish I shared your optimism …" John trailed off, frowning at Pompey. Pompey rolled out a long tongue and smiled. Sort of.

* * *

Several hours later, John skipped down the stairs, fastening the button on his jacket. He was smiling proudly at Mary, who looked regal in a deep purple wrap dress with a knee-length flared skirt. The dress was neither expensive nor flamboyant, but suited her perfectly, and gave her an air of understated elegance he always associated with royalty. Or Sherlock.

For the first time in years, he was almost intoxicated by happiness: he had a wonderful wife, his best friend was back from the dead and on the mend, his other friends were invited to celebrate with a drink, and their archenemy was once and for all behind bars. He made a mental note to ask Mycroft what exactly he had done with Moriarty.

Not even on his wedding day had he been this happy, John mused – Sherlock's suicide had always been at the back of his mind, so that even the happiest moments were tainted with a bitter taste. But these days were over, he thought, now all he had to do was make sure that Sherlock recovered properly, and didn't overwork himself. The latter would be difficult, he knew - finding a balance between the needs of his weakened body and the demands of his starved mind would be a trial for everyone's patience.

But tonight was a time for celebration, and he would enjoy every minute of it; and after an hour – at most! - he would step in, all doctor-soldier, and tuck Sherlock into bed, no matter how much he protested. And protest he would, as a matter of principle, secretly pleased that John took charge and relieved him of the obligation to show stalwart fortitude. And thank God the Polish nurse had arrived in the meantime, for she had been given the room next to Sherlock, to check on him several times during the first few nights, so that John and Mary had time for themselves.

John knew he would startle from sleep at least once anyway, and worried, he would sneak across the hallway and peek into Sherlock's room to look after him; and Sherlock would pretend to be sound asleep, so that they both could have a good night's rest. This was how their relationship worked – always had, and always would: some things remained unspoken, but there was nothing they would not do for each other, and together, they would go to hell and back. They'd done it plenty of times already.

When they crossed the hall with its black and white tiled floor, heading for the little parlour, John caught a glimpse of Mycroft talking on the phone and rather hurriedly retreating into a small yellow room, almost banging the door shut. John stopped mid-stride, anxiety flaring up like a startled flock of birds. Mycroft's face had been … the epitome of deepest concern. No, worse – perplexity and dismay personified. Something was clearly wrong. He said so to Mary, his heart speeding up painfully and his mind teeming with possible catastrophes.

"Probably just some political crisis," Mary reassured him, "or the Prime Minister was found in the wrong bed, the crown jewels were stolen and the Queen has lost one of her corgies. Stop worrying John. That's Mycroft's job."

"Right," he muttered, "right." Putting up a cheerful facade, he followed her into a room across the hall called _The_ _little_ _parlour_.

The name had to be a joke – the room was hardly smaller than the entrance hall, but thankfully much more cosy. Intricately carved oak panelling ran along the lower third of the walls, the upper part was covered in brightly coloured tapestries, and just below the stuccoed ceiling, a row of escutcheons with various coats of arms adorned the front side. The entire floor was covered with a Persian carpet in pale shades of green, blue, and purple, with dashes of navy and white in between. In contrast, the draped curtains and the cushions of the chairs with their elegantly curved legs were ivory coloured, with a delicate pattern woven into the fabric. Several porcelain table lamps bathed the room in warm light, but the eyecatcher of the parlour was a huge fireplace flanked by marble columns bearing tall silver knights, complete with spears, swords, and shields. Logs were crackling in the hearth, providing warmth and light, and on the mantlepiece, blue Ming vases stood next to a rather chunky golden clock. It sat in the middle, dominating the mantelpiece and dwarfing the vases, and had to be a priceless antiquity of some sort – the only valid explanation for the existence of a clock five minutes slow in an otherwise meticulously clocked household, John mused.

"John, if you do any more gawping today, you risk trismus," Sherlock drawled, but he sounded more amused than annoyed. He was residing next to the fire in a winged chair that looked like a throne; clad in his tartan dressing gown, with a blanket in matching colours over his knees, he might have passed for a Victorian nobleman waiting to grant an audience. To complete the picture, all he needed was a hunting dog at his feet. Well, that could be remedied, John thought, and chuckled.

"I don't know what you find so amusing," Sherlock said, but a slight smile made its way onto his face as well. John sat down on a sofa next to him, and Mary followed suit, eyeing the furniture appreciatively. Tea was waiting for them on a low table, along with an exquisite assortment of delicacies served on fine china, bearing the same coat of arms as the house.

"Genuine, I suppose?" Mary asked, her eyes travelling from the dishes to the mantelpiece with the Ming vases, the clock, and the two silver knights perched on their columns.

"Mycroft abhors imitation," Sherlock shrugged. "Dust collectors, in my opinion."

At the mention of Mycroft, John remembered the scene he had just witnessed. "Speaking of Mycroft – he just looked rather concerned. As if a major catastrophe had occurred. Any idea?" A deep frown creased his forehead.

"Oh, stop worrying, John, everything's fine," Sherlock replied, dismissing the notion with a flick of his wrist. "Mycroft's pissed off about the whole dance thing. And he's got some news he finds rather hard to fit into his view of the world."

"So, um," John swallowed hard, "it has nothing to do with Moriarty?"

"Only remotely." Sherlock smirked. "Moriarty is not the source of _all_ evil …"

John's back stiffened. "Don't make a joke of it. Just don't." He shook his head, suppressing the memory of all those days vacillating between hope and fear. "What's he done with Moriarty anyway?"

"Locked away in the deepest dungeon, of course," Sherlock replied. "Though I doubt he'll get any information out of him."

"I'm perfectly happy if he never says a word again," John muttered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "You were worried he might have escaped – that Mycroft's so upset because Moriarty is back on the streets?"

"Is that so hard to imagine?" John looked at Sherlock, not even trying to disguise his fear.

"John," Sherlock sat up slightly, wincing in pain. "Moriarty will never walk free again. Literally," he added with a raised brow. "Turns out I aimed quite well. He's limping now."

"Good. That's good," John muttered, rubbing his face nervously. He felt Mary's warm touch on his arm.

"You look a lot better, Sherlock," Mary smiled. "Almost … radiant." She cocked an eyebrow and looked at him expectantly: Sherlock was reclining in his chair, hands folded and smiling contemplatively. "Well, it's a pleasant evening, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade will arrive any moment now, and I relish the idea of Mycroft fulfilling his promise." Sherlock grinned. "It will certainly not be boring."

"About Mycroft," John coughed and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, really, I thought you were kidding about the dance thing. Please don't humiliate your brother. It's just not-"

"John." Sherlock looked him in the eyes. "He promised. He'd do it anyway now, if only to shut me up."

"So you'll have him dance on the table." John shook his head.

Sherlock just smiled, and for once, the smile reached his eyes. "He'll survive."

"I wonder whether his pride will as well."

The butler suddenly appeared in the doorframe, and Mary jumped up. "Excuse me, I'll be just a moment," she promised and winked at John, then followed the butler out.

"What?" Sherlock craned his neck. "What's going on?" He turned to John. "You've planned something, haven't you?"

"Wait and see." John's entire face beamed with happiness.

"Tell me!" Sherlock demanded.

"No."

"John, please, tell me." Sherlock looked at him pleadingly.

John just chuckled. "You're doing it again. Doesn't work on me." He shook his head.

"What?" Sherlock snapped indignantly.

"The puppy look. Doesn't work on me. I know you too well."

"OK." Sherlock's face took on a serious expression, and he leaned forward. "Look, John, I hate surprises. They make me …" he swallowed hard. "Feel insecure."

"Nooo," John leaned back and stared at him in mock horror. "What a revelation – Sherlock Holmes feeling insecure?"

"Well, not really," Sherlock retorted immediately, "but it is admittedly unsettling to not be able to deduce what is going to happen next." He sighed. "I hate surprises."

"Not this one. Well," John raised his brows. "I hope not. In the long run, at least."

"Whatever does that mean?" Sherlock exclaimed. "Come on, John. Tell me."

"Patience is a virtue, Sherlock. No."

"I've never claimed to be virtuous, John!" He suddenly looked horrified. "Please, John, tell me it's not a ridiculous welcome-back party with pink balloons, paper hats, and pompous fools from the Yard!"

There was a rustle at the door. "Does that mean you don't want me here?" Lestrade droned, hands on hips.

"Oh, don't be an idiot," Sherlock spat. "You know exactly who I meant. The term _fool_ comprises many hierarchical levels, and you rank on the highest, bordering on the sensible, and you do manage the occasional foray into the land of the intelligent." He tried to add a scowl, but somehow it didn't look convincing on his radiant face.

Lestrade just blinked at him, lost.

John plucked Sherlock at the sleeve. "You remember, Sherlock, you said you wanted to throw him the occasional word of praise."

"Well, I just did, didn't I?" Sherlock looked at him, confused.

"Nope," John shook his head. "That's not praise." Turning to Lestrade, he said: "He means you're the best DI the Yard has, and he's glad to see you."

"Does he?" Lestrade didn't sound convinced.

"He does," John nodded.

Sherlock sighed. "I do." He flashed Lestrade an annoyed look.

"Well," Lestrade broke into a grin, "Good to see you, too, risen from the dead! Blimey, gave us all a scare, first coming back, and then almost dying again." He walked towards him, arms extended, then thought better of it. "I guess hugging you is not such a brilliant idea, is it?"

"No, it is not," Sherlock gave a fake smile, instinctively shrinking back into the chair.

"Don't wanna give you any more pain," Lestrade stopped in front of Sherlock, beaming down at him. "Seriously - I can't tell you how glad I am to have you back. The three years …" his expression darkened, "were pretty harsh. Look," he shuffled his feet, "I'm sorry about the whole arresting you thing and, uh,-"

"Lestrade," Sherlock cut him off, "don't get sentimental. You acted professionally, I expected nothing less of you." Sherlock caught a look from John, who had raised his brows at him. "And, um," this time, it was Sherlock who hesitated, "I'm grateful that you tried to warn me, three years ago, I mean. That was … good. Pointless, but good." He produced another fake smile and John rubbed his forehead in despair, but Lestrade didn't mind. He beamed even more at Sherlock and was about to say something else, when a shriek made their heads turn. "Sherlock!"

John had half-expected Molly, but it was Mrs Hudson launching herself across the room, skirts of her dress flying, and almost knocking the butler sideways, who had clearly not expected the frail old woman to be so nimble on her feet.

It was too late to stop her, and no one would have had the heart to do it anyway. John could see Sherlock quickly pressing a hand over the wound, and then he was enwrapped in a flowery cloud of silk, cashmere and Casbah Nights.

"Oh may boy," she all but sobbed, "first coming back and then getting yourself shot! We were worrying ourselves silly over you," she drew back and looked at him. He was smiling up at her, only slightly pained, and genuinely happy, John noted. "They wouldn't let me visit you in the hospital," she complained, "saying that this dreadful man was out there, trying to kill us all. Mycroft will do well to keep him hidden, I don't know what I'd do to him if I had a chance."

John bit back a smile at the threat, imagining Mrs Hudson attacking James Moriarty with a rolling pin.

"You'd spear him with my harpoon, I imagine," Sherlock smirked, "wouldn't be the first time."

John looked poleaxed. "What?"

"Oh nothing," Sherlock, dismissed it, "Mrs Hudson once chased away a burglar with it."

John gaped. "And you never told me?"

"You were in Dublin at the time, we didn't want to worry you."

John's mouth stood open, but before he could utter a sound, Mrs Hudson continued, "You know I kept all your things Sherlock, and your brother promised to have a new coat made for you, the bullet holes can't be mended."

"I hope he leaves out the tracking device this time," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sure he only means well," Mrs Hudson said, tucking a wayward curl behind his ear. "But enough of my silly chatter, here's someone else who wants to say hello." She stepped aside, and John finally noticed Molly.

She had slipped in quietly, it seemed, and now stood there, clutching a too big tote bag, her expression varying between uncertainty and delight. Her hair was tied up loosely, and she had added only a touch of colour to her lips, making her look both younger and more elegant than John had ever seen her. She was wearing a midnight blue shift dress with a bateau neckline that flattered her feminine figure; the fabric had a jacquard design with blue beads woven into it, and had she not worn a rather hairy cable knit cardigan of unidentifiable colour with it, she might have come straight from a makeover show.

"Hello Molly," Sherlock said, sounding a bit husky. A tiny smile was playing around his lips, and John suddenly had very mixed feelings towards both of them. After all, Molly had known about the faked suicide all this time – had known in what state John had been; and he could not imagine what had happened after the fall – had Sherlock said goodbye to her? Had he hugged her? Had he been injured, and she had taken care of him? Suddenly, he realised just how many questions were still unanswered; falling back into step with Sherlock after he had woken up had been so easy, he had almost forgotten that there was still a three year gap to be filled – even with the diary.

John frowned at himself – was he perhaps a tiny bit jealous? That Molly shared a secret with Sherlock? Was he? Grudgingly, he admitted _yes._

Sherlock shot him a quick glance, hissing, "John, you're being dense. She barely even saw me after the fall, I had to leave in a hurry."

John jerked upright. "What? I didn't-"

"You wear your thoughts written on your face," Sherlock smirked, then turned to Molly.

She had slowly walked up to him, still clutching her bag as if her life depended on it. "Hello Sherlock, it's good to see you. Um, I'm," she laughed nervously, then abruptly stopped. Swallowing hard, she unclenched her hands and put them to the side of her body, standing a bit like a soldier during an inspection. "Well, you know me, I'm only going to say silly things, and don't worry, I won't hug you, I know you don't like that, and, and I can't wait to see you in the morgue again, and I've missed you terribly, even your insults – um, I just wanted you to know that I'm totally happy that you're back – but I know you know that anyway." She had run out of breath.

Sherlock smirked. "Indeed." Tilting his head to the side, he added with a sly smile, "I may not be fond of hugging, Molly, but I wouldn't mind a welcome kiss."

"Oh," she blinked and blushed, glowing bright red within seconds. "Okay," she bent down with a jerky movement, but caught herself, and carefully put one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Apparently, Molly was thinking of a modest cheek kiss, John noticed to his surprise, because she simply touched the side of her face to Sherlock's – John had half-expected her to kiss him fully on the lips.

His eyes grew as wide as they would go, however, when Sherlock held her back with a hand on her wrist – and then gave her a slow, gentle kiss on the side of her mouth. "Thank you, Molly. For everything," he said quietly.

John gaped, and Molly did, too, but before the situation could get awkward, all hell broke loose: there was a whine, a bark, and a panicked shriek from the hall; paws were clawing on tile, and an anguished howl was followed by the butler shouting, "Hold him, Peter!"

Another yelp, and then suddenly, the wild pounding of paws on carpet was drawing nearer – a second later, a big, brown, furry avalanche the size of a Shetland pony thundered into the parlour, jumping a footstool, knocking over a servant, and tearing down the table cloth along with a century-old tea set. The fine china shattered with an ear-splitting noise, spilling tea, cake and sandwiches all over the carpet and the furniture. John was hit by a slice of salmon; Mrs Hudson suddenly had clotted cream on her face, and Lestrade found himself bombarded with scones.

"Oh my God!" John jumped up and threw himself towards the huge dog, but it was already tackling Sherlock in his chair, rearing up on its hind legs and bearing down on the object of its adoration. Sherlock gave a startled cry, but was instantly smothered by paws, fur, a wet tongue, and Molly tumbling into his lap.

Molly bravely tried to wrestle down the shaggy mountain, but Pompey blithely ignored her feeble attempts to keep him from slobbering all over Sherlock. "Stop! Stop it!" she shrieked to no avail. John and Lestrade joined her efforts, then Mary came running, closely followed by the butler, and together they grabbed Pompey's collar, frantically tugging at it, but the dog didn't even seem to notice.

"Sherlock," John squeezed out, wheezing, "tell him to sit! Sit, for God's sake, you monster!"

"Sit." It was spoken quietly, but the effect was stunning: Pompey scrambled off the chair, and folded his large frame into a neat pile at Sherlock's feet, gazing at him adoringly. He didn't have to look up very far: he was almost on eye level with Sherlock.

"Well," John huffed, straightening his jacket. "At least he's well trained." He cocked an eyebrow, glancing at the dog quivering with excitement. "I'd even say he's got a fixation on you, Sherlock."

Molly clambered to her feet, muttering dismayed "Ohs" at the sight of dog drool on her dress.

Sherlock looked at her and said, "Thank you for trying to save my life, Molly. That was brave."

"Oh," she stuttered, "Oh, um – excuse me! I need to go to the bathroom!" She fled the room, clutching her tote bag.

"You all right?" John asked concerned, looking Sherlock up and down.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, sounding slightly stunned.

John noticed that Sherlock's hands were trembling. "You sure you're all right?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm fine," Sherlock repeated, folding his hands under the blanket. "Though I could do with a towel to wipe off the slobber."

"Right away, Sir," the butler said and hurried out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said quietly to John, "I've had a few similar but less enthusiastic encounters in Russia."

"Oh, shit," John muttered. "It never occurred to me-"

"It's okay, John," Sherlock cut him off.

The butler reappeared and handed him a wet towel, and Sherlock carefully wiped his face and hands. He took his time, John noticed, probably to regain his composure. After handing back the towel, Sherlock cleared his throat, sat up slightly, then glared at the dog.

"What is that?" he spat, glowering at the animal with a blood-chilling look that spoke of bloodshed and murder.

Mycroft walked into the room, surveyed the battlefield with one glance, then said, "Surely, Sherlock, your powers of observation have not suffered so profoundly that you can no longer identify a member of the species _canis_ _lupus_ _familiaris_. It's a dog, obviously."

"It looks more like it was well on its way to becoming a bison before it stopped and turned into a yak instead," Sherlock snarled.

Pompey gave off a faint whine.

Mycroft shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "I have been told it is probably a crossbreed between an Irish Wolfhound and a Hungarian Komondor."

"It's a calamity on legs!"

"His name is Pompey, and he's yours," Mycroft informed Sherlock, glaring daggers at him.

"I refuse to take responsibility for this slobbering bedside rug!" Sherlock spat.

"He is a bit big, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson chirped, dabbing at blobs of clotted cream on her dress with a handkerchief. "I thought you had him from a dog breeder who raises Scottish Terriers?" She looked questioningly at Mary.

"Yes, but Pompey was left in a box at the doorstep of the dog breeder as a newborn," she explained. "One of the Scotties had a litter of puppies anyway, so he gave him to her, and she raised him – well, until he was too big, he kept squashing the others accidentally."

"Well, seems to be a favourite of his," Lestrade chuckled, picking porcelain splinters from the sofa and sitting down. "Sherlock," he added, "you might consider it. Think of what that -" he nodded at Pompey, "ox in a dog coat would do to a burglar. You could teach him to hunt down suspects, or - I don't know – sniff out poison and stuff."

"The Detective Inspector has a point, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a raised brow.

Sherlock scowled. "He's too big for the flat!"

"He can have John's room."

"He can _not_ have John's room, John's room belongs to John!"

"Well, then you will have to keep him in your bedroom."

"If I want something fluffy to step on, I'll get a rug. This is not a city dog, Mycroft!"

"Then don't think of him as a dog at all; consider him your new flatmate," Mycroft sneered.

"This," Sherlock stabbed a finger at Pompey, who promptly wagged his tail, "This does not qualify as a flatmate. My former flatmate was perfectly capable of feeding and grooming himself without my help!"

"And so is Pompey," Mycroft assured him. "He will let you know if he requires anything. Hopefully, that will remind you of such basic needs like food and water as well," he added. "And don't present the argument that you do not have time for a dog. I will of course provide a dog sitter in case you need to travel abroad or other circumstances prevent you from taking care of him." Mycroft pursed his lips, then added sweetly, "You could practice on him."

John saw a strange look pass between the brothers – Mycroft had been taunting Sherlock, that much was obvious, but John couldn't figure out with what.

"Getting anywhere with your negotiations?" Sherlock jibed in return.

"Certainly," Mycroft gave a tight smile.

Lestrade interrupted, "Why did you get such a huge dog? I mean, I like him fine, but Gosh, he _is_ big. Looks funny, don't you think? Like, he's got dreadlocks, or something."

Mycroft sighed. "It proved to be next to impossible to find a dog that would suit Sherlock. He came closest."

"Makes sense," Lestrade shrugged. "Well, Sherlock, at least you don't have to bend down to pet him!" He grinned.

Sherlock frowned at Pompey. "How does he know me?"

"He knows your scent," Mary explained. Sherlock looked suspiciously at Mycroft. "How?"

Mycroft seemed uncomfortable for the fraction of a second.

"He's got your scarf," John interjected.

"My what?" Sherlock wrenched himself around, but hissed in pain, freezing mid-movement. Pompey whined in response.

"You will get a new one," Mycroft assured him. "In fact, he had your coat first, but he -" Mycroft frowned. "Loved it to death, I suppose."

"He tore it up," Mary grinned. "We had to take it away – he kept swallowing bits of cloth."

Sherlock leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "So that's what happened to my coat."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I have already commissioned a new one at Belstaff's. The manufacturer still has both the pattern and the fabric."

"I have no use for a dog," Sherlock snapped.

"Oh yes you do," Mycroft drawled, giving him a stern look. "Remember, he's a guardian dog, Sherlock. Both Komondors and Irish Wolfhounds are famous – if not to say infamous – for guarding and defending their families with ferocious determination."

Again, John noticed, there was this strange look passing between the brothers – something unspoken, a secret untold, only shared between the two of them. His forehead creased into a deep frown, trying to fathom what what was going on, but before he could come up with anything, Sherlock huffed, "Oh, for God's sake," and lifted his hand, commanding the attention of the dog – not that he hadn't had it all along: Pompey sat watching him eagerly, tongue hanging out and drooling onto the carpet; he was leaning towards Sherlock – it was as if he were glued to the spot, but was being pulled forward by some invisible force, every inch of him yearning to climb into his master's lap.

Sherlock made only the tiniest gesture of invitation, but Pompey instantly rose on his tall legs, stepped forward, and gingerly put his head into Sherlock's lap. When Sherlock's long fingers found their way into the wiry fur on his head, Pompey gave a startlingly human sigh of complete satisfaction, and closed his eyes in pure bliss.

"He has found his god," John said reverently.


	53. Swords Crossed

**Swords Crossed**

Twenty minutes later, the mess had been cleared away, a new tea set had appeared, and the party of friends had arranged itself in a semi-circle around Sherlock. Pompey had taken up vigil next to his master and sat beaming with pride, showing his appreciation by wagging his tail and gazing up dreamily at Sherlock.

John surveyed the small group: Mary had engaged both Lestrade and Mycroft in conversation, and Mrs Hudson was chatting with Molly, who had buttoned up her cardigan to hide her rumpled dress. Sherlock was lounging in his chair, one hand loosely on the nape of Pompey's neck; his gaze found John's eyes, and his lips quirked into a tiny smile. He looked tired and far too frail, John thought, but despite his obvious exhaustion, there was an air of contentment about him he had never before detected on his ever-restless flatmate. For a few precious moments, he seemed perfectly happy.

Nevertheless, John decided, it was time for bed. They hadn't reached the one hour limit he had promised himself yet, but the whole excitement around the dog easily made up for it.

"Okay, off to bed with you," he said to Sherlock, and got to his feet.

"Not yet," Sherlock said and looked to Mycroft.

His brother gave a world-weary sigh. "It seems my brother insists on some entertainment. Would you all please excuse me for a moment," he requested with the slightest bow, "I shall change into more suitable clothing." He strode out of the room, leaving Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson puzzled.

"Um, he's going to, uh," John waved a hand in the air and didn't know what to say.

"Dance on the table," Sherlock added.

"_What?_" Three startled voiced echoed around him.

"Well, it's quite simple, actually," Sherlock stated drily. "A while ago, my brother asked me to acquire some secret data for him, a task he deemed quite difficult to fulfil; as an incentive, he promised me to dance on the table, should I succeed." He folded his hands in his lap, the perfect image of complacency.

"And you succeeded," Lestrade said, gaping.

"Of course I did," Sherlock retorted, with the smuggest smile on his face John had ever seen in his entire life.

"And he actually meant it?" Lestrade blinked. "Mycroft said he'd dance on the table and meant it?"

"Lucky he didn't say he'd go to the moon," John muttered, uncomfortable with the prospect of Mycroft doing something that had to be light years out of his comfort zone. John still could not imagine him swaying his hips to a disco beat. Come to think of it, he didn't even want to imagine it.

"Mycroft is going to dance for us?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed in surprise.

"On the table, yes," John confirmed with a sigh.

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Bloody hell, and my phone's battery's dead – I'd love to film this!"

"Oh, I'm sure Mycroft will make a wonderful job of it," Mrs Hudson declared.

"Please, guys," John interjected with a pained grimace. "No filming, no pictures, no gossiping. Remember, we're talking about the British government, and that deserves some dignity."

Sherlock snorted. "Calm down, John."

"Yeah, well, it's just-" John broke off when the door opened and four footmen entered, carrying a heavy oak table between them that might easily have dated back to Tudor times. They deposited it in front of the guests, placed a footstool next to it, and stepped back. After them, the butler entered and approached the table. A moment later, two footmen followed, each handing a sword to the butler. The man placed the weapons carefully on the table, forming a cross. The servants then lined up behind the table, standing to attention.

John swallowed and couldn't help but think of an execution. The only thing missing was the block. He shot a glance at Sherlock, but he was watching the whole scene with detached interest, a smirk on his face.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, "I don't think-"

A drum beat echoed from the hall, followed by the low whine of a bagpipe getting ready to play.

"What the bloody …" John trailed off, mouth agape.

All heads turned towards the door, and in marched a Scottish drummer, followed by a piper, both in full traditional garb, as if straight from the Highland games. Behind them, walking with measured strides, came Mycroft, dressed in kilt, doublet, and bonnet, ghillies on his feet.

"Jesus," John muttered and looked at Lestrade, whose mouth was hanging open, too. Molly, Mary and Mrs Hudson were leaning together, whispering excitedly.

Both the piper and the drummer stopped a few feet away, but Mycroft walked on, stepped onto the table, took up position, put his heels together and gave the typical stiff-backed bow.

And then the dance began. John could only sit and stare in wonder when he realised that Mycroft wasn't just dutifully performing a century-old tradition, but that he was a master at it: his leaps were surprisingly high, legs perfectly straight, toes pointed, back rigid, head held high, arms never wavering; he seemed to spend more time in the air than on the ground, and his feet never touched the swords.

Towards the end, the music sped up, and the intricate footwork became so fast, it was difficult to follow with the eye. The dance ended with a final jump and another stiff-backed bow.

Mrs Hudson was the first to break the spell. "Lovely, Mycroft!" she exclaimed, clapping wildly. "I didn't know you had Scottish ancestors!"

The others joined her applause, Molly and Mary cheering loudly.

Mycroft blinked in surprise, then gave another bow and stepped off the table. He was bright red and panting, but the glow on his face did not come from exertion alone.

Sherlock grinned openly at his brother. "You might consider taking it up again – would spare you the diet." He raised an eyebrow.

"I will think about it," Mycroft conceded, and accepted a towel handed to him by the butler. "If you'll excuse me again," he addressed the still cheering group, "I'll change my attire if you don't mind." He strode out of the room, and John could have sworn his back was even straighter than before.

"Sherlock," John turned to his friend. "What was that all about?"

Sherlock looked at him innocently. "My brother fulfilled his promise, I told you."

"You made him gleam with pride," John protested. "You never intended to humiliate him. You knew he'd enjoy it."

"If you say so." Sherlock just smiled vaguely.

"Oh, don't be so enigmatic," John snorted.

"I'm not being enigmatic," Sherlock stated. "Mycroft learned the traditional dances from an early age on and even competed quite successfully."

"What made him stop?" John asked.

"Well, I think he just grew out of it," Sherlock said. "Literally."

John frowned. "When he became overweight?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John pursed his lips. "Well, he's not overweight anymore."

"Indeed," Sherlock drawled.

John suddenly noticed Molly and Lestrade giggling wildly. "What are you two on about?"

They instantly looked guilty.

"Nothing nasty," Mary patted his arm. "They've just won the bet."

"Bet? What bet?" John looked confused, but did not receive an answer.

"It's obvious, John," Sherlock said straight-faced. "The colour of his underwear."

"What?" John was at a loss.

"They had a bet running on what the colour of his underwear would be. Under the kilt, John, do keep up."

"Oh." John looked around, frowning. "What was it?"

"You didn't notice?" Molly grinned.

"Uh … no. I was focusing on the dance, for God's sake!" When the girls just giggled, he looked at Sherlock, seeking help.

"Same pattern as the kilt," Sherlock smirked. "Perfection in every detail."

"Okay." John blinked. "What about-" he turned to Sherlock. "If your brother learnt to dance – what about you? Did you learn it, too?"

Sherlock's face was an unreadable mask. "I will leave that as a challenge for your deductive skills."

"Oh come on!" John complained.

Sherlock struggled to sit up, suddenly looking completely drained. "John, I'm tired."

"Yeah, Oh God, yeah, I'm sorry," John blurted and jumped up. "Off to bed with you." He stopped for a second. "Though I'm perfectly aware that you're just trying to avoid answering my question."

Sherlock just smiled innocently.

* * *

"Okay, here we go," John pulled the blanket over Sherlock and took back the glass of water he had made him drink. Sherlock looked a lot better in the soft light of the bedside lamp, he thought, and he was still radiating with a kind of half-suppressed joy John had never seen on him.

"Right. I just hope Pompey behaves and stays out of bed." He gave the dog a stern look, but Pompey just blinked innocently. He had entered the room and instantly jumped on top of the large chest at the foot of the bed, as if it were there solely for him to occupy it. "A big overeager dog sniffing at all and sundry and then slobbering all over you isn't exactly the best thing when you have a surgical wound."

Sherlock just smirked and watched Pompey yawn, exposing an impressive row of teeth. "It's true, I suppose," he slowly said. "Pompey will be very useful."

John huffed out a laugh. "Mary's idea. Though I still think a neat, compact Scottie would have been easier to handle."

"And useless to me. No," Sherlock, shook his head. "He'll do just fine. A guardian dog, as Mycroft pointed out. Very protective of their families."

"Yeah, don't ever let him get close to Anderson. He'll have him for breakfast."

Sherlock chuckled softly. "You were right, you know."

"Right about what?" John asked.

"About the surprise. In the long run, I did like it."

"Told you so," John smiled, pleased to no end.

"Though I still don't like surprises," Sherlock was quick to add.

"Yeah, they make you feel insecure." John chuckled.

"I only said that to make you tell me what it was."

"Nope," John grinned, "you meant it. And I like surprises."

"You do?" Sherlock sat up slightly, giving him a keen look.

"Yeah, well, if it's a nice surprise," John hurried to say. "Not something like Moriarty back on the streets. God, what that bastard has done to us …"

"Something good might still come of it, though," Sherlock remarked enigmatically. "If you like surprises, John," he added with a sly smile, "then I might just have one for you."

"Really?" John's face lit up.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, smirking again.

"What is it?" John asked eagerly. When he saw Sherlock's face, he groaned. "Okay, you won't tell me now, right? You're teasing me."

"Patience is a virtue, John," Sherlock declared with a straight face.

"Yeah, thank you, I can quote myself. Though you do have a surprise, don't you?" John folded his arms. "You've been all smug and smirking and - I don't know – so completely pleased with yourself. It's got to do with Mycroft being upset, doesn't it?"

"Hm." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, the smirk on the verge of breaking into a grin.

John groaned. "OK, go on, enjoy yourself, and leave me to stew in my own juice, thank you," he scolded, but it was light-hearted.

"I don't intend to leave you stewing John, but you will have to wait a considerable amount of time anyway. Roughly seven months, I'd say."

"What are you on about?" John put his hands on his hips, face screwed up in confusion.

Sherlock just looked at him, all innocence.

"Listen, Sherlock," he sat down on the bedside and put on his serious doctor's face. "I really don't know what to make of this. If you were a patient coming to see me in the surgery, beating about the bush like that," he cleared his throat and leaned towards Sherlock, "and if you were a _girl, _I would say to you," he abruptly lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, "Sweetie, is there something you need to tell me?"

Sherlock's face remained completely neutral. However, he drew in a sharp breath, and retorted, "Then I would say to you, _doctor_, this is a poor choice of words, an inappropriate way of addressing a patient, and an unfounded presumption based on a prejudiced attitude towards young female patients."

John pouted. "Yeah. That's exactly why I would never say that to you." He cleared his throat. "But then again, I would never ask you _Are you pregnant, honey?_"

"Since this is biologically impossible, it would be an exceedingly stupid question." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Right," John declared. "Are you?"

Sherlock glared at him. "John, I may be able to achieve a lot of things, the magnitude of which the average human cannot even conceive in their dull minds and boring lives, but I cannot change my physiology. Therefore: no."

"Right." John put his hands on his knees. "You're not pregnant. OK, enough of the banter. You need to sleep." He got up and reached for the glass to refill it.

"Irina is."

He dropped the glass. It landed on the carpet with a dull thud.

"_What?_" John's eyebrows shot up all the way to his hairline, and his eyes seemed close to popping out of his head.

"Irina is pregnant," Sherlock repeated matter-of-factly.

John stared at him blankly, his lips forming sounds that never left them, the movement alternating with the blinking of his eyes.

Frowning, Sherlock added, "You do remember Irina, don't you? Surely, John, not even your memory is that short. She is the wife of the Russian businessman, Michail, whose data I stole. I had sexual intercourse with her in order to-"

"I KNOW!" John blurted, forgetting to close his mouth. "But _how_?"

Sherlock gave John a stern look. "John, you are a doctor, I assume you know how the natural conception of a human child takes place."

"No, no – hang on a second," John held up his hands as if trying to keep some lunatic at bay. "Let's not jump to conclusions, right? She's pregnant, okay. By whom?" he asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Me, it would seem." Sherlock regarded him with a decidedly self-confident expression.

John's mouth gaped like an open barn door, but no sound came out. After several failed attempts at forming a coherent thought, he burst out: "How can you possibly know that?"

"Mycroft has surveillance on her. She's been to her gynaecologist, and they've only just found out."

John sat trying to grasp the news, his thoughts doing a spin cycle. "Wait a moment." He blinked. Then blurted, "You had _unprotected sex _with her?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Obviously."

"No, no-" John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Slow down. Let's be rational about this. OK." He swallowed and cleared his throat. "How can you be sure you're the father? I'm mean, she can't be far gone, and a DNA test is usually not performed before the fifteenth week-"

"Michail is infertile."

John gaped at him. "But if she knew, why did she risk-"

"She didn't know. He had successfully blamed her all those years. Probably even paid her doctor to lie to her."

"And you thought so, too?"

"No."

"_What_?" John spat.

"I suspected it was not her fault. None of Michail's mistresses ever got pregnant."

"Why the hell did you then – oh, God, you knew; you risked it – scratch that: you hoped she'd get pregnant!"

"Although the chances were very slim, it did present itself as an opportunity." Sherlock shrugged, but the nonchalance of the gesture was nullified by the grin developing on his face.

John looked up at the ceiling. "I can't believe it. That – that's just you, isn't it? You – you have sex once in your life, and _bang! Bull's eye._" He giggled. Then sobered instantly, and suddenly a horrified look appeared on his face. "Michail will find out – you said he'd skin her alive!"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Not if Mycroft can persuade him to agree to a deal, which is precisely what my dear brother is doing right now." He settled himself into the pillows more comfortably. "Michail is a businessman, he'll rather sell his wife at a profit than be exposed as a cuckold. It's just a matter of what Mycroft is willing to offer."

"And I bet he's willing to offer a lot," John sighed, relieved. "So that was what the taunting was all about," he muttered. "The, um, practising on Pompey, and him being a guardian dog and so on." He looked up. "That's what upset Mycroft, right? That he has to make a deal with the Russian now?"

"That, too," Sherlock agreed, "but he was a lot more upset at the idea of me fathering a child before him."

"Huh, yeah," John chuckled, "sibling rivalry. Huh." John stared at him, then barked out a laugh. "I never thought you were the father type."

"Well, I, uhm," Sherlock cleared his throat, and John was struck by the realisation that Sherlock was lost for words – almost.

"I assumed it would be a challenging undertaking to raise a child, and since Mycroft is desperate to have an heir but cannot find the time to marry, and you were – engaged as well in the meantime, I thought it would be a shame to waste an opportunity that presented itself in such a convenient manner."

John frowned, digested this, then smiled. "A challenge. You can bet on it. And I was engaged – hang on, you thought you'd come back to an empty home? Sherlock," John blurted, suddenly suspicious, "were you thinking that I wouldn't spend time with you anymore? That our friendship's over?"

"No," Sherlock declared firmly. "I know you, John."

"But you're planning to raise the child?" John asked curiously. "Yourself, I mean, at Baker Street?" he added hastily.

"Of course. Who could do this better than I?" Sherlock dismissed the subject with a flick of his wrist.

John quickly shut his mouth before he could say something clearly classified as 'a bit not good'. He thought about the notion of Sherlock having offspring, and with a sigh came to the conclusion that he could not imagine him with a child – in fact, he could picture this scenario far less than Mycroft dancing. Yet, the Holmes brothers kept surprising him.

Pondering, John's frown deepened so much, his eyebrows threatened to knot themselves together. Sherlock having a child. Jesus. What would that be like? Jesus, if all went well, he would actually find out! A slow smile began spreading across his face as he tried to envisage Sherlock bottle-feeding a baby, changing nappies, singing a lullaby – hang on, he'd probably play the violin … it still seemed alien. But then again, when Sherlock was focused on a task, his hands working on a delicate experiment, and his big brain calculating all possibilities at break-neck speed – if all of this was transferred to caring for a child, it didn't seem _entirely_ impossible anymore.

And anyway, his sleeping hours were erratic at best, a child could hardly disturb them. Now, thank God Sherlock hadn't deleted all the nursery rhymes in his brain.

John's grin became so wide, the corners of his mouth almost met his earlobes. "Sherlock, you do know, though," he warned, "that a child just might interfere with the Work?"

"Well, obviously I won't have time for Lestrade's more tedious cases any more – nothing under an eight, at least," he huffed.

John quirked an eyebrow. "I'll be more blunt, then. _All that matters to me is the Work_ – Sherlock," he shook his head, "that's off the agenda. Definitely."

"That's been taken off the agenda a long time ago, John," Sherlock just said, closing his eyes and exhaling a deep breath. He seemed to virtually melt into the pillows, for once entirely relaxed.

"Hm." John smiled. "I thought the only thing that matters to you is the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins …"

"Yeah, well," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "We'll still have plenty of that. And anyway, there are other things that matter."

"Such as?" John asked quietly.

"Friendship," Sherlock murmured, sounding sleepy. "Friends, brothers, wives … and, of course, just the two of us against the rest of the world."

John couldn't help but grin. "Plus a dog, and a child."

Sherlock smiled serenely. "I hope so."

~ 0 ~

**Finis**

~ 0 ~

* * *

**Dear readers and reviewers,**

**I want to express the biggest possible THANK YOU to you - I never expected the story to attract so many readers! My head's still in the clouds …**

**I was startled and absolutely thrilled that people not only read the story, but read it in-depth as well – therefore, an extra big thank you to my faithful reviewers – you have no idea how much confidence you have given me, and how much I have learned from your responses.**

**Until about one and a half years ago, I didn't even know that such a phenomenon as _fanfiction_ exists (yes, I'm a bit of a country bumpkin …), and when I came across it, I couldn't believe my luck – that there were so many wonderful stories out there, just for me to read! I almost felt guilty … and I guess that kicked me into writing as well. **

**I hope I'll find time to write some more _Sherlock, _maybe something shorter – but then again, _Firestorm_ was originally meant to be a ten-chapter piece. ;-)**

**And now I can lean back and wait for series 3 – and I'm sure it will be completely different and utterly brilliant and we will all enjoy it! **

**Love, **

**Dustbunny (romping about happily)**


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